There were splinters in the palms of her hands. Seven in the palm of her right, three in the left, all positioned like constellations across the roughed skin. She gave them a impatient glance, but this was not the time to dig them out. That would have to wait for later – when that would be, she didn’t know, but at the moment she wouldn’t have given a talking sheep a second glance. There were other things occupying her mind. Escape, for example.
The guards had not expected to be used as step-ladders to hoist criminals over the gates that night, and so it came as rather a shock to be used as such. They had not anticipated, nor known how to deal with, the flying feet they found themselves confronted with, and were so at something of a disadvantage. Much and Marion climbed them like squirrels and left both with a solid kick in the head. The guards had nothing left to do but faint, which they both did. Much and Marion were left with splinters and firmly etched lines from the ironwork, not to mention an entire string of armed men at their heels, but they were on the outside of the gates. This was enough for the moment.
The guards found it absurdly difficult to free themselves from the heavily latched gates, and once they had gotten out, their quarry was out of sight. They cursed and yelled, and stumbled into the darkness. Sir Guy was woken, and he rushed to join in the chase. A circle of gold light covered the men as they ran, provided by the torches someone had thought to grab. This made it easier to see the ground beneath their feet, but much more difficult to see their surroundings – and what hid in it.
When the guards were fresh, they called out and jeered, laughing in the counterfeit safety of their ring of light. When the roads and forest stretched out far behind them, though, they began to slack off, and were soon quiet, except for the clank of armor and the rustle and breath of the horses. The night was a canvas on which they were vividly painted, but their prey was not. This made them antsy, and they longed for either action or their beds. Their nervousness was not reflected on Sir Guy, however. He sat his mount steadily and refused to find fault with the dark. The guards were assured that the lawbreakers were within easy grasp.
Much and Marion, though, had no intention of being caught, even though it meant a night entirely devoid of sleep, running through the damp fields and forest, and fording streams icy with the not-long-past winter. Rough grasses ripped at their legs as they fled, and by the time the sky blushed with dawn, Lady Marion Fitzwater looked as though she had spent the night in a pigsty, and her companion looked no better – both traced with blood from the branches’ blows, and covered in bird dust. They collapsed in an exhausted heap many miles from their homes, not having eaten in several hours, their limbs loose and trembling with their run. They lay protected in a copse of trees deep in a forest that was unknown to them, and slept. Around them, the wood started to lighten, and branches clicked with birds’ feet as they began their waking songs, but the two figures on the ground lay still, silent, and blind to the morning.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Chapter Four
Often, the implications of a situation are not fully comprehended until well after it has happened. Such was the case with Marion as she sat in the mews with the falling dusk around her. They had sat here the entire afternoon, her and Much, and now dark was approaching. Perhaps they would be able to escape from the confines of their hiding-place when the sun was finally smothered by night. She longed to escape the bird smell and cramp of the mews, and be able to face the consequences of her situation with her legs free beneath her.
She shifted, then stilled at the rustle of a guard outside the door. How stiff and cold her limbs were!
When the guard was past, Much leaned close to her and whispered, “Marion, I can no longer think – the ache has gone to my head.”
“I think, Much, that this would be an ideal time for you to have full command of your brain! I have no idea where we are to flee, and I do not think I will be able to sit still for very much longer.”
“Ah. Yes. You may have forgotten, but this morning I was a dead man, and I have consequently made no plan of escape. I have less ideas than you.”
God save them, they felt a miserable pair. Neither had a thought in their head other than to run like the devil when darkness came, and to where was anyone’s guess. Marion was just beginning to realize the severity of her actions, and Much was feeling the results of so nearly being a dead man, and now a wanted one. They huddled side-by-side in the cool evening, waiting for the night to descend onto them with any counsel it might hold.
They both drifted to sleep at some point, their heads pillowed on the masonry wall at their backs. When Marion woke, it was entirely dark, and the light of the half-moon could be seen shining faintly through the door. Pinpricks of pain tickled her legs and feet as she moved to wake Much.
When they had both pulled themselves to their feet and limped to the door, it was with only a vague notion of east in their heads, and little real direction. Marion had thought to ask Much if it might be feasible to stay at his father’s mill on the river, but that seemed a thing that he would have offered on his own, and so she was quiet on the subject. They made their way to the door, easing outside only when they had listened for some time for the guards that were posted throughout the village. One was directly across the narrow street from them, in front of the stables, but he paid no attention as they slid like rats through their own town. Their feet made little noise, aside from the slight shuffling of dust on leather, and they reached the edge of town with almost no trouble.
Only once did they come across anything that would give them a problem; this being the castle gates.
“I’m an idiot, Marion. I should be hung for my stupidity. I know the gates are closed at night, and it is certain that they would be with criminals on the loose. Why did we hide inside the gates rather than safely on the outside?!”
“Hush Much, we’ll alert the guards. You are not the only idiot; we’re both to blame for this. But honestly, there was nothing else to be done, for we couldn’t have hidden anywhere but inside, with Sir Guy after us. There was no chance of getting to the gate, and certainly not outside without risking our lives. We did what we were able, as we will now.”
“I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry – I just feel such an half-wit.”
Marion was searching the tops of the walls of the courtyard, and didn’t immediately respond. When she did, it was on a different subject.
“Sir Guy,” she said, “is a clever man, and he does not like to be embarrassed. He will not be happy if we get away, and so he has the castle well fortified against our escape.” She squinted, and it was clear that she simply let her thoughts run off her tongue. “He knows, of course, that we would not have been able to slip through the gates, and so are here on the grounds. There will be a guard at every corner. I need to. . . think a moment.”
She leaned back into the shadow of the wall. Much groaned a little.
“How are the guards? Do they thirst for blood as Sir Guy seems to? And are their orders to take us as prisoners, or as examples explaining how one should always obey their lord? Will they slit our throats at sunrise to stay any rebellious thoughts of the villagers?” Much’s eyes were wide, and the scant light threw his forehead into a mass of creases.
“I do not know their orders, Much,” Marion said softly, “ nor do I know their hearts. I’m afraid that I know not how much we should fear.” She soon realized that these words did no good, and in fact Much looked more frightened than before. Quickly, she added, “though, they do not appear cruel from what I know of them.”
Much glanced at her across the dark, and she thought that she would have to learn to filter her words better. Ill-chosen words of comfort can do more damage than threats.
The gate was a weak point in the strength of the castle, Marion had heard Sir Guy telling his uncle again and again. It was too short, and one day they would pay. Enemies could swarm over whenever they wished, with little hindrance. They must be made taller, he said, and so an elegant iron piece was made to top them. This made the gates look taller, but actually did little good, for the pretty scrolls of metal gave a much better grip than the smooth wood, once one could reach them.
There were two guards posted at the gate. Both were heavily built and lightly armored, and they never seemed to need to move. They had stood there all night with their broad backs against the wooden gate, shifting only occasionally move their weight back and forth. So few guards had been posted here because Sir Guy believed that the wooden part alone was enough to keep a woman inside, and with the added height of the iron and the strength of the wood, they were certainly safe. Sir Guy had altogether failed to realize what measures the two recently declared criminals would go to in seeking their freedom.
She shifted, then stilled at the rustle of a guard outside the door. How stiff and cold her limbs were!
When the guard was past, Much leaned close to her and whispered, “Marion, I can no longer think – the ache has gone to my head.”
“I think, Much, that this would be an ideal time for you to have full command of your brain! I have no idea where we are to flee, and I do not think I will be able to sit still for very much longer.”
“Ah. Yes. You may have forgotten, but this morning I was a dead man, and I have consequently made no plan of escape. I have less ideas than you.”
God save them, they felt a miserable pair. Neither had a thought in their head other than to run like the devil when darkness came, and to where was anyone’s guess. Marion was just beginning to realize the severity of her actions, and Much was feeling the results of so nearly being a dead man, and now a wanted one. They huddled side-by-side in the cool evening, waiting for the night to descend onto them with any counsel it might hold.
They both drifted to sleep at some point, their heads pillowed on the masonry wall at their backs. When Marion woke, it was entirely dark, and the light of the half-moon could be seen shining faintly through the door. Pinpricks of pain tickled her legs and feet as she moved to wake Much.
When they had both pulled themselves to their feet and limped to the door, it was with only a vague notion of east in their heads, and little real direction. Marion had thought to ask Much if it might be feasible to stay at his father’s mill on the river, but that seemed a thing that he would have offered on his own, and so she was quiet on the subject. They made their way to the door, easing outside only when they had listened for some time for the guards that were posted throughout the village. One was directly across the narrow street from them, in front of the stables, but he paid no attention as they slid like rats through their own town. Their feet made little noise, aside from the slight shuffling of dust on leather, and they reached the edge of town with almost no trouble.
Only once did they come across anything that would give them a problem; this being the castle gates.
“I’m an idiot, Marion. I should be hung for my stupidity. I know the gates are closed at night, and it is certain that they would be with criminals on the loose. Why did we hide inside the gates rather than safely on the outside?!”
“Hush Much, we’ll alert the guards. You are not the only idiot; we’re both to blame for this. But honestly, there was nothing else to be done, for we couldn’t have hidden anywhere but inside, with Sir Guy after us. There was no chance of getting to the gate, and certainly not outside without risking our lives. We did what we were able, as we will now.”
“I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry – I just feel such an half-wit.”
Marion was searching the tops of the walls of the courtyard, and didn’t immediately respond. When she did, it was on a different subject.
“Sir Guy,” she said, “is a clever man, and he does not like to be embarrassed. He will not be happy if we get away, and so he has the castle well fortified against our escape.” She squinted, and it was clear that she simply let her thoughts run off her tongue. “He knows, of course, that we would not have been able to slip through the gates, and so are here on the grounds. There will be a guard at every corner. I need to. . . think a moment.”
She leaned back into the shadow of the wall. Much groaned a little.
“How are the guards? Do they thirst for blood as Sir Guy seems to? And are their orders to take us as prisoners, or as examples explaining how one should always obey their lord? Will they slit our throats at sunrise to stay any rebellious thoughts of the villagers?” Much’s eyes were wide, and the scant light threw his forehead into a mass of creases.
“I do not know their orders, Much,” Marion said softly, “ nor do I know their hearts. I’m afraid that I know not how much we should fear.” She soon realized that these words did no good, and in fact Much looked more frightened than before. Quickly, she added, “though, they do not appear cruel from what I know of them.”
Much glanced at her across the dark, and she thought that she would have to learn to filter her words better. Ill-chosen words of comfort can do more damage than threats.
The gate was a weak point in the strength of the castle, Marion had heard Sir Guy telling his uncle again and again. It was too short, and one day they would pay. Enemies could swarm over whenever they wished, with little hindrance. They must be made taller, he said, and so an elegant iron piece was made to top them. This made the gates look taller, but actually did little good, for the pretty scrolls of metal gave a much better grip than the smooth wood, once one could reach them.
There were two guards posted at the gate. Both were heavily built and lightly armored, and they never seemed to need to move. They had stood there all night with their broad backs against the wooden gate, shifting only occasionally move their weight back and forth. So few guards had been posted here because Sir Guy believed that the wooden part alone was enough to keep a woman inside, and with the added height of the iron and the strength of the wood, they were certainly safe. Sir Guy had altogether failed to realize what measures the two recently declared criminals would go to in seeking their freedom.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Chapter Three
When Much was pulled into the day, there were marks on his face, and a darkened eye was thrown into relief under the bright sun. He was taken onto the scaffold and handed to the hangman; a sagging, drooping study of dejection, eyes lowered as the ties on his wrists were checked. A beaten dog wasn’t as sincerely pitiful as Much the miller’s son on that late spring afternoon.
Sir Guy of Gisborne stood at the base of the gallows with his arms crossed over his chest, and while his face was made of stone, his eager eyes were turned toward the thief above him. The Sheriff stood behind him, in the shadow of his nephew, and looked nervously about him for his ward. His ward was neatly positioned in the shade of taller people, her joints jarring with every beat of her heart, her arms and belly aching with adrenalin. She kept her brow smooth, though, and a smile quick to her lips, for she realized that nothing could be done if she looked as guilty as Much.
When the hangman began to bind Much’s feet, Marion told her legs firmly to walk, and slipped through the narrow ribbon of people between her and Sir Guy. He was easy to approach, placed as he was with his back to her, and it was a simple matter to reach him and steal the thin blade of her knife against his back. He tensed when it touched him, but his arms stayed where they were, allowing Marion to work the knife quickly under the line of the stiff leather vest he wore under his tunic, to where it lay against his skin.
“You may guess what I’m asking,” she said quietly.
“Am I correct in assuming that you would free the prisoner?”
“You are.”
“What would you ask me to do about it?” He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “There is nothing I could do, other than warn the people of Nottingham that another criminal dwells in their midst. You would do well to release me, unless you wish for the rope yourself.”
“My good sir. You will die if you do not tell the man to release the thief.”
“Mmm. Lady, forgive me, but I don’t believe you could do a thing as dreadful as murder. Now, release me before the guards hear and come to see what the disturbance is.”
She took the cloth of his tunic tighter in her hand, and twisted the knife until a drop of blood dulled the shine of the blade. “Sir, I warn you. Give the order, or this knife will taste your breakfast. Let the man go.” She could feel him breathing, and she had the passing thought that it would be extremely difficult to stay his breath.
“And I warn you, Lady, little good will come of this.”
“Be that as it may. I have warned you once, twice and thrice, and I will warn you once more.” She wetted her fingertips scarlet, and had the satisfaction of hearing his breath hiss through his nose. He swallowed hard and said hastily, “Lady, perhaps we could come to an agreement: you let me go now, and I will tell no one of this, or –– ah, I could. . .”
“The hangman ties the prisoner. Tell him to release the man.”
“Yes, well, you see. . .” and then quite loudly “ah, I have changed my mind. I think perhaps that the criminal should be released. Now! Please! Do you not understand what I am telling you?”
The people looked on with interest, and though it was clear what had caused Sir Guy’s sudden change of heart, no one offered to come to his rescue. A few guards filtered through the crowd, but Sir Guy shook his head violently at their approach. The hangman sighed, slipped the noose off of Much’s neck, and gave him a gentle push that landed him in the dust of the square.
“Go.”
Much swallowed, his eyes wide, and looked into clear sky. He didn’t dare grin, or even smile, for fear of ruining whatever wonderful luck was with him.
“Thank you,” he said. His voice was husky, as though the rope had held his weight. He made his way to where Sir Guy stood, after his rescuer. Marion still held her knife in close company of Sir Guy’s skin, though softly now, and without force. A hood covered her head; a vain attempt at keeping her identity secret, and Much hadn’t seen her in nearly a year. He didn’t recognize her until she whispered:
“Much, with God as my witness, I’ll put this knife in your heart if you don’t run as fast as your feet will carry you.” She felt Sir Guy stiffen at her language.
“Marion,” Much said, recognition flowing. Then, with a slight moan: “What have you done?”
“I have just saved your ungrateful life. Now please run; my arms are tiring with holding this knife.”
“I will not run. I know what will happen if I do – you shall pay for my crime when I have not. I have more honor than that, Marion, and you don’t remember me if you think I will abandon you like that. Come with me.”
“Much! You put me in more danger than I am already in. I can not and will not come with you.”
“Alright then.”
He took her hand as they bolted.
Sir Guy, of course, gave great chase, staying close at their heels as they ran through town, though the wound at his back kept him from overcoming them. Much and Marion hid themselves in the musk and slanting light of the mews, with their breath gushing painfully from their lungs and ruffling the birds’ wings. The birds, severe in their barred plumage, shifted on their perches and watched the criminals out of shiny black eyes. They only watched, though, and didn’t cry out, for they were very well behaved, and they knew Marion.
Sir Guy and the guards ran noisily past, casting a quick glance into the dark mews on their way by. But on they went, leaving Much and Marion in their relative peace.
Sir Guy of Gisborne stood at the base of the gallows with his arms crossed over his chest, and while his face was made of stone, his eager eyes were turned toward the thief above him. The Sheriff stood behind him, in the shadow of his nephew, and looked nervously about him for his ward. His ward was neatly positioned in the shade of taller people, her joints jarring with every beat of her heart, her arms and belly aching with adrenalin. She kept her brow smooth, though, and a smile quick to her lips, for she realized that nothing could be done if she looked as guilty as Much.
When the hangman began to bind Much’s feet, Marion told her legs firmly to walk, and slipped through the narrow ribbon of people between her and Sir Guy. He was easy to approach, placed as he was with his back to her, and it was a simple matter to reach him and steal the thin blade of her knife against his back. He tensed when it touched him, but his arms stayed where they were, allowing Marion to work the knife quickly under the line of the stiff leather vest he wore under his tunic, to where it lay against his skin.
“You may guess what I’m asking,” she said quietly.
“Am I correct in assuming that you would free the prisoner?”
“You are.”
“What would you ask me to do about it?” He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “There is nothing I could do, other than warn the people of Nottingham that another criminal dwells in their midst. You would do well to release me, unless you wish for the rope yourself.”
“My good sir. You will die if you do not tell the man to release the thief.”
“Mmm. Lady, forgive me, but I don’t believe you could do a thing as dreadful as murder. Now, release me before the guards hear and come to see what the disturbance is.”
She took the cloth of his tunic tighter in her hand, and twisted the knife until a drop of blood dulled the shine of the blade. “Sir, I warn you. Give the order, or this knife will taste your breakfast. Let the man go.” She could feel him breathing, and she had the passing thought that it would be extremely difficult to stay his breath.
“And I warn you, Lady, little good will come of this.”
“Be that as it may. I have warned you once, twice and thrice, and I will warn you once more.” She wetted her fingertips scarlet, and had the satisfaction of hearing his breath hiss through his nose. He swallowed hard and said hastily, “Lady, perhaps we could come to an agreement: you let me go now, and I will tell no one of this, or –– ah, I could. . .”
“The hangman ties the prisoner. Tell him to release the man.”
“Yes, well, you see. . .” and then quite loudly “ah, I have changed my mind. I think perhaps that the criminal should be released. Now! Please! Do you not understand what I am telling you?”
The people looked on with interest, and though it was clear what had caused Sir Guy’s sudden change of heart, no one offered to come to his rescue. A few guards filtered through the crowd, but Sir Guy shook his head violently at their approach. The hangman sighed, slipped the noose off of Much’s neck, and gave him a gentle push that landed him in the dust of the square.
“Go.”
Much swallowed, his eyes wide, and looked into clear sky. He didn’t dare grin, or even smile, for fear of ruining whatever wonderful luck was with him.
“Thank you,” he said. His voice was husky, as though the rope had held his weight. He made his way to where Sir Guy stood, after his rescuer. Marion still held her knife in close company of Sir Guy’s skin, though softly now, and without force. A hood covered her head; a vain attempt at keeping her identity secret, and Much hadn’t seen her in nearly a year. He didn’t recognize her until she whispered:
“Much, with God as my witness, I’ll put this knife in your heart if you don’t run as fast as your feet will carry you.” She felt Sir Guy stiffen at her language.
“Marion,” Much said, recognition flowing. Then, with a slight moan: “What have you done?”
“I have just saved your ungrateful life. Now please run; my arms are tiring with holding this knife.”
“I will not run. I know what will happen if I do – you shall pay for my crime when I have not. I have more honor than that, Marion, and you don’t remember me if you think I will abandon you like that. Come with me.”
“Much! You put me in more danger than I am already in. I can not and will not come with you.”
“Alright then.”
He took her hand as they bolted.
Sir Guy, of course, gave great chase, staying close at their heels as they ran through town, though the wound at his back kept him from overcoming them. Much and Marion hid themselves in the musk and slanting light of the mews, with their breath gushing painfully from their lungs and ruffling the birds’ wings. The birds, severe in their barred plumage, shifted on their perches and watched the criminals out of shiny black eyes. They only watched, though, and didn’t cry out, for they were very well behaved, and they knew Marion.
Sir Guy and the guards ran noisily past, casting a quick glance into the dark mews on their way by. But on they went, leaving Much and Marion in their relative peace.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Chapter Two
A fleet-winged bird landed on a densely leafed branch, swelled his proud brown breast, and sang. His song curled over and mingled with the jingling of bits and bridles in the courtyard. The sound of horses and the song of the bird drifted into the windows above and fell onto ears willing to listen. It was a sweet morning, and appreciated.
Marion sat on the end of her bed pulling long brown stockings over her legs. The clear morning sun slanted onto her face and hair, warm where it fell. She was in a happy mood today, the strength of the late spring sun and the fact that she was entirely free to her own devices affecting her greatly.
She shifted her long tunic, took her cloak from the foot of the bed, and trotted briskly down the stairs to her breakfast. The Sheriff sat at the small table in the corner of the kitchen where he was often found, eating his porridge. He looked placidly up at her, pale, sticky grains in his mustache, and smiled at her. She accepted his invitation to join him at his breakfast, and was served a bowl of milky porridge, the only thing that the Sheriff believed to be healthful enough for morning consumption.
William sat on his chair like a drop of water on a leaf, with the slight frown that was so common of his face resting on his brows. After the good-mornings were said, and they had spoken of nice things for a while, he asked if she was to attend the hanging that would take place in the square that day.
“I didn’t know there was to be one,” was her answer. “Who will be hung?”
“A rascal of eleven kinds – a lad called Much, the miller’s son.”
Her response was a startled one, for Much had been a childhood playmate, and any that she had were well remembered. “Oh, why? What has he done?”
“He’s a thief,” the Sheriff said firmly “of wheat. My good nephew Sir Guy found him out. It seems that he has been cheating our good merchants out of their wheat for his own devices for some time now, and Sir Guy thought it best to show no mercy to him. So that the villagers would not think we were soft, you know.”
“Yes, I see. Very clever. Might you not just give him a trial, though, and warn him before you kill him? He was a friend to me when we were young, and I would feel terribly sorry to hear of his death.”
A condescending glance fell on her. “My dear. I should not have spoken so – I forget you are a woman. I assure you that we are not acting on supposition; we are certain that the crime has been committed, and we will do what is necessary to stop this from happening in the future. A trial would do none of us any good, except for your friend, who could go on swindling our good people out of their bread just as he always has. I hope I have not upset you?”
“No – you have not. I am sorry, please forgive me.”
Feeling the matter settled, he smiled, said, “Of course, my dear,” and turned his attention back to his cooling bowl of porridge. No more was said on the subject.
When breakfast was finished, and the porridge that William had insisted she eat lay in a lump in her belly, Marion rose to quit the kitchen for the sunny outdoors. She thanked the Sheriff, gave her bowl to a kitchen boy, and went thoughtfully to the stables. Deciding to abandon her previous idea of a ride, she instead walked very slowly through the town. Her mind stewed in her head as her feet took her through the familiar streets of Nottingham. Everywhere there were the marks of poverty; on the sagging roofs of the houses; on the emaciated livestock wandering through the muddy yards and streets, and on the gaunt faces of the villagers.
Garbage lay collected in the gutters, reeking in the heat of the sun. Pigs and dogs sorted through it in search of anything edible, growling and squealing when they found something. There was mud in the ruts of the road, but on the high places it was dry, and Marion’s light boots were quickly covered with dust. She came lazily through town, past the cheerful din of the smithy, by fields ruffled by the plow, and ones grown up again with crops and weeds; through the squalor of the poor streets, and the wealth and dirt of the rich. She passed those who hid their faces from a member of the sheriff’s family, and those who smiled at her.
Her mind was busy with what to do about her friend Much. What could be done? He had been her only friend apart from her sister, and though they had not spoken in a year, she still thought of him fondly; though to contradict the Sheriff – or, rather, his nephew – meant severe punishment for herself. Though she told herself that it shouldn’t matter, she couldn’t help but wonder how severe, exactly. A time in the stocks? In the dungeon? Flogging? Banishment? She had no idea what Sir Guy would bestow on her, and she didn’t trust the Sheriff to save her. Chastising herself for worrying when her friend’s life was so endangered, she continued to think. And it was a rash thing that she came upon, but she cared little for any member of the castle aside from her sister, and she was young and proud, and thought no danger could befall her.
She turned her feet and walked purposefully back to the square. There she found the gallows with their twisted decorations of gold rope swinging in the mild breeze, spectators beginning to gather on the dirty cobbles. Voices brightened the air as the gallows were readied. People sat on the lip of the well, and on the splintery wood at the foot of the scaffold, laughing as though it couldn’t just as easily have been their body preparing to hang. Marion was finding it rather difficult to join in the festive air, and skirted around the crowd in search of Much. Better if he also knew what she was going to do.
When she had looked for him a while in vain, she went quietly and casually to her chamber. There she took a small silver knife from a chest – a gift to her when she was younger – and slipped it into the belt of her tunic. The handle could barely be glimpsed, and with a bit of arranging, couldn’t be seen at all. She’d had not a day’s practice with the thing in her life, and instead would have to rely on the surprise with which she hoped to take them. This made her rightfully nervous, and she hoped against hope that the Sheriff had not shared this morning’s conversation with his nephew. This quietly started day would end in brilliance.
Marion sat on the end of her bed pulling long brown stockings over her legs. The clear morning sun slanted onto her face and hair, warm where it fell. She was in a happy mood today, the strength of the late spring sun and the fact that she was entirely free to her own devices affecting her greatly.
She shifted her long tunic, took her cloak from the foot of the bed, and trotted briskly down the stairs to her breakfast. The Sheriff sat at the small table in the corner of the kitchen where he was often found, eating his porridge. He looked placidly up at her, pale, sticky grains in his mustache, and smiled at her. She accepted his invitation to join him at his breakfast, and was served a bowl of milky porridge, the only thing that the Sheriff believed to be healthful enough for morning consumption.
William sat on his chair like a drop of water on a leaf, with the slight frown that was so common of his face resting on his brows. After the good-mornings were said, and they had spoken of nice things for a while, he asked if she was to attend the hanging that would take place in the square that day.
“I didn’t know there was to be one,” was her answer. “Who will be hung?”
“A rascal of eleven kinds – a lad called Much, the miller’s son.”
Her response was a startled one, for Much had been a childhood playmate, and any that she had were well remembered. “Oh, why? What has he done?”
“He’s a thief,” the Sheriff said firmly “of wheat. My good nephew Sir Guy found him out. It seems that he has been cheating our good merchants out of their wheat for his own devices for some time now, and Sir Guy thought it best to show no mercy to him. So that the villagers would not think we were soft, you know.”
“Yes, I see. Very clever. Might you not just give him a trial, though, and warn him before you kill him? He was a friend to me when we were young, and I would feel terribly sorry to hear of his death.”
A condescending glance fell on her. “My dear. I should not have spoken so – I forget you are a woman. I assure you that we are not acting on supposition; we are certain that the crime has been committed, and we will do what is necessary to stop this from happening in the future. A trial would do none of us any good, except for your friend, who could go on swindling our good people out of their bread just as he always has. I hope I have not upset you?”
“No – you have not. I am sorry, please forgive me.”
Feeling the matter settled, he smiled, said, “Of course, my dear,” and turned his attention back to his cooling bowl of porridge. No more was said on the subject.
When breakfast was finished, and the porridge that William had insisted she eat lay in a lump in her belly, Marion rose to quit the kitchen for the sunny outdoors. She thanked the Sheriff, gave her bowl to a kitchen boy, and went thoughtfully to the stables. Deciding to abandon her previous idea of a ride, she instead walked very slowly through the town. Her mind stewed in her head as her feet took her through the familiar streets of Nottingham. Everywhere there were the marks of poverty; on the sagging roofs of the houses; on the emaciated livestock wandering through the muddy yards and streets, and on the gaunt faces of the villagers.
Garbage lay collected in the gutters, reeking in the heat of the sun. Pigs and dogs sorted through it in search of anything edible, growling and squealing when they found something. There was mud in the ruts of the road, but on the high places it was dry, and Marion’s light boots were quickly covered with dust. She came lazily through town, past the cheerful din of the smithy, by fields ruffled by the plow, and ones grown up again with crops and weeds; through the squalor of the poor streets, and the wealth and dirt of the rich. She passed those who hid their faces from a member of the sheriff’s family, and those who smiled at her.
Her mind was busy with what to do about her friend Much. What could be done? He had been her only friend apart from her sister, and though they had not spoken in a year, she still thought of him fondly; though to contradict the Sheriff – or, rather, his nephew – meant severe punishment for herself. Though she told herself that it shouldn’t matter, she couldn’t help but wonder how severe, exactly. A time in the stocks? In the dungeon? Flogging? Banishment? She had no idea what Sir Guy would bestow on her, and she didn’t trust the Sheriff to save her. Chastising herself for worrying when her friend’s life was so endangered, she continued to think. And it was a rash thing that she came upon, but she cared little for any member of the castle aside from her sister, and she was young and proud, and thought no danger could befall her.
She turned her feet and walked purposefully back to the square. There she found the gallows with their twisted decorations of gold rope swinging in the mild breeze, spectators beginning to gather on the dirty cobbles. Voices brightened the air as the gallows were readied. People sat on the lip of the well, and on the splintery wood at the foot of the scaffold, laughing as though it couldn’t just as easily have been their body preparing to hang. Marion was finding it rather difficult to join in the festive air, and skirted around the crowd in search of Much. Better if he also knew what she was going to do.
When she had looked for him a while in vain, she went quietly and casually to her chamber. There she took a small silver knife from a chest – a gift to her when she was younger – and slipped it into the belt of her tunic. The handle could barely be glimpsed, and with a bit of arranging, couldn’t be seen at all. She’d had not a day’s practice with the thing in her life, and instead would have to rely on the surprise with which she hoped to take them. This made her rightfully nervous, and she hoped against hope that the Sheriff had not shared this morning’s conversation with his nephew. This quietly started day would end in brilliance.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Chapter One
Women, no matter where they stood on the social ladder, were destined to be pawns in the man’s game of politics and economics. And the young, unwed ward of a wealthy man was especially subject to friendships and marriages benefitting her guardian, if not herself.
Some women are seemingly meant for this, and Isabelle Fitzwater was one of them. She was a gentlewoman from her silver-blonde hair to her dainty slippered feet, easily befriending the most revolting noble’s daughter in order to aid her guardian in a difficult business transaction, and just as easily removing herself from the friendship when it became too wearing for either her or the man who looked after her.
The Sheriff of Nottinghamshire was an older man, wife- and child-less, more portly than pitiless, but with a grave seriousness for his duties. He had been the good friend of a John Fitzwater who died immediately upon being widowed, leaving William, the good Sheriff, with the charge of two young girls just coming into the bloom of childhood. William felt it his duty to look after them to the best of his abilities, as John had been a particular friend to him, and the children had the best raising and education a woman merited. They were given an entire staff of ladies-in-waiting whose job was simply to keep the girls amused, a cook who would serve them whatever they wished, and the finest, gentlest palfreys to ride. Nothing was kept from them, and they were quick, happy children with little memory of their mother or father.
Beautiful Isabelle was, of course, doted on by every noble’s wife in the area. Despite this, she stayed as kind and gentle as a lamb, and never a complaint was heard as to her nature. The effects of their indulgent raising certainly showed in the other one, though, the people lamented, for Marion Fitzwater was proud and quick-tempered from an early age, with little patience for the petty games of politics that were so popular. She was too young to fully comprehend the importance of the surface-level civility that was the oil on the wheel of society, and remained a difficulty in the running of the castle for some time. Gradually, however, she learned to behave in ways expected of a lady, though never with such ease and detachment as her sister.
In the company of close friends, the Sheriff was known to say that Marion was too passionate for politics, and much, much too clever. He was the only one on the earth, except for Isabelle, that preferred the dark, hot-tempered one to her more elegant sister.
Marion grew up not particularly well liked, as the reluctant ward of an awkward man who quietly adored her, with her esteemed and admired sister as her only friend.
Archery became her release. Hunting and archery were both considered acceptable for ladies, and Marion took full advantage of this. She was an accomplished rider, but the bow was her greatest skill. She practiced long hours behind the stables until she could shoot a knot in a tree from a distance where she could hardly see the knot in question, and still, she practiced. Growing tired of the light-weight ladies’ bow, she wished to shoot a heavy longbow like the soldiers that marched through the town on their way to the coast. The Sheriff wouldn’t encourage this, for fear of her doing herself harm, and so she taught herself on a bow borrowed from a passing army.
She snuck into the encircling forest for her practice now, and told no one but her sister what she did. Isabelle was gently disapproving of this, but she wouldn’t tell anyone of her sister’s actions, for she was a loving and trusting sibling, and believed completely in her sister’s ability to care for herself. The Sheriff, though, worried terribly every time she disappeared, and it grew to such an extent that he hired a man to follow her and watch out for her. He found her bow, and she was lightly chastised for using a man’s weapon much too heavy for her to pull, and for concealing it.
Marion, not knowing the expanse of the Sheriff’s worry and affection for her – and having a tendency toward pride – grew rather angry with him. She was polite when she was angry, and she was polite with him now, but he saw the coolness in her eyes where there was usually warmth, and he was sober for days afterward. He went to the finest bow-maker, and had a sleek, supple longbow crafted, lighter to draw than some, but still a man’s weapon. This, along with a white palfrey, were the gifts he gave her in an attempt to win back her trust and care. Marion was not easily won back, but she held the Sheriff in relatively high esteem and forgave him quickly.
The three of them lived in almost complete happiness in the small castle on the hill, the full skirt of Nottingham town at their feet, the grand, heavy forest of Sherwood cloaking their back. Isabelle’s sewing and reading was easily allowed by their life, and Marion’s archery and riding were, though somewhat less-easily, allowed, and they were both content. The Sheriff wasn’t an easily contented man, as he was given to worry and fatigue over his job, leading to the hiring of a second man. His nephew, though poor, was an energetic and teachable young man, and he was taken from his family to the Sheriff’s as quickly as could be arranged.
Sir Guy of Gisborne, as he was called, was a young knight without skills or money, entirely at the disposal of his uncle. He was eager to please, and everything that was asked of him was quickly and efficiently executed. He was young and bright and wonderfully strong, and he frightened his uncle. The Sheriff would never admit to this, for how silly must it sound to be frightened of your own sister’s son, who had never done a thing to harm you? He was, though, and it couldn’t be helped that the lad’s sheer avidity for life and status backed William into a fearful corner of his mind from where he peered at the world for several months.
Sir Guy was a fierce young man who believed that wrongs must be punished immediately and severely. There had always been punishment in town, but with the arrival of Sir Guy of Gisborne came a sharp increase in the number of hangings and disfigurement as penalties. For offences as slight as stealing an apple from the Sheriff’s orchard one was in danger of losing a hand, or death as a penalty for the theft of a sheep. The villagers dared not speak anything that might be construed as blaspheme against the Sheriff for fear of their tongues. The town slanted steeply from a sustaining, teeth-gritting place of forbearance and patience in the face of difficulty to an irrepressible location of chaos and excitement from which would be birthed legends and tales to survive through centuries. No one knew that then, though, and certainly not the legends themselves: for you don’t feel history the same way you don’t feel the shifting of mountains beneath your feet.
Some women are seemingly meant for this, and Isabelle Fitzwater was one of them. She was a gentlewoman from her silver-blonde hair to her dainty slippered feet, easily befriending the most revolting noble’s daughter in order to aid her guardian in a difficult business transaction, and just as easily removing herself from the friendship when it became too wearing for either her or the man who looked after her.
The Sheriff of Nottinghamshire was an older man, wife- and child-less, more portly than pitiless, but with a grave seriousness for his duties. He had been the good friend of a John Fitzwater who died immediately upon being widowed, leaving William, the good Sheriff, with the charge of two young girls just coming into the bloom of childhood. William felt it his duty to look after them to the best of his abilities, as John had been a particular friend to him, and the children had the best raising and education a woman merited. They were given an entire staff of ladies-in-waiting whose job was simply to keep the girls amused, a cook who would serve them whatever they wished, and the finest, gentlest palfreys to ride. Nothing was kept from them, and they were quick, happy children with little memory of their mother or father.
Beautiful Isabelle was, of course, doted on by every noble’s wife in the area. Despite this, she stayed as kind and gentle as a lamb, and never a complaint was heard as to her nature. The effects of their indulgent raising certainly showed in the other one, though, the people lamented, for Marion Fitzwater was proud and quick-tempered from an early age, with little patience for the petty games of politics that were so popular. She was too young to fully comprehend the importance of the surface-level civility that was the oil on the wheel of society, and remained a difficulty in the running of the castle for some time. Gradually, however, she learned to behave in ways expected of a lady, though never with such ease and detachment as her sister.
In the company of close friends, the Sheriff was known to say that Marion was too passionate for politics, and much, much too clever. He was the only one on the earth, except for Isabelle, that preferred the dark, hot-tempered one to her more elegant sister.
Marion grew up not particularly well liked, as the reluctant ward of an awkward man who quietly adored her, with her esteemed and admired sister as her only friend.
Archery became her release. Hunting and archery were both considered acceptable for ladies, and Marion took full advantage of this. She was an accomplished rider, but the bow was her greatest skill. She practiced long hours behind the stables until she could shoot a knot in a tree from a distance where she could hardly see the knot in question, and still, she practiced. Growing tired of the light-weight ladies’ bow, she wished to shoot a heavy longbow like the soldiers that marched through the town on their way to the coast. The Sheriff wouldn’t encourage this, for fear of her doing herself harm, and so she taught herself on a bow borrowed from a passing army.
She snuck into the encircling forest for her practice now, and told no one but her sister what she did. Isabelle was gently disapproving of this, but she wouldn’t tell anyone of her sister’s actions, for she was a loving and trusting sibling, and believed completely in her sister’s ability to care for herself. The Sheriff, though, worried terribly every time she disappeared, and it grew to such an extent that he hired a man to follow her and watch out for her. He found her bow, and she was lightly chastised for using a man’s weapon much too heavy for her to pull, and for concealing it.
Marion, not knowing the expanse of the Sheriff’s worry and affection for her – and having a tendency toward pride – grew rather angry with him. She was polite when she was angry, and she was polite with him now, but he saw the coolness in her eyes where there was usually warmth, and he was sober for days afterward. He went to the finest bow-maker, and had a sleek, supple longbow crafted, lighter to draw than some, but still a man’s weapon. This, along with a white palfrey, were the gifts he gave her in an attempt to win back her trust and care. Marion was not easily won back, but she held the Sheriff in relatively high esteem and forgave him quickly.
The three of them lived in almost complete happiness in the small castle on the hill, the full skirt of Nottingham town at their feet, the grand, heavy forest of Sherwood cloaking their back. Isabelle’s sewing and reading was easily allowed by their life, and Marion’s archery and riding were, though somewhat less-easily, allowed, and they were both content. The Sheriff wasn’t an easily contented man, as he was given to worry and fatigue over his job, leading to the hiring of a second man. His nephew, though poor, was an energetic and teachable young man, and he was taken from his family to the Sheriff’s as quickly as could be arranged.
Sir Guy of Gisborne, as he was called, was a young knight without skills or money, entirely at the disposal of his uncle. He was eager to please, and everything that was asked of him was quickly and efficiently executed. He was young and bright and wonderfully strong, and he frightened his uncle. The Sheriff would never admit to this, for how silly must it sound to be frightened of your own sister’s son, who had never done a thing to harm you? He was, though, and it couldn’t be helped that the lad’s sheer avidity for life and status backed William into a fearful corner of his mind from where he peered at the world for several months.
Sir Guy was a fierce young man who believed that wrongs must be punished immediately and severely. There had always been punishment in town, but with the arrival of Sir Guy of Gisborne came a sharp increase in the number of hangings and disfigurement as penalties. For offences as slight as stealing an apple from the Sheriff’s orchard one was in danger of losing a hand, or death as a penalty for the theft of a sheep. The villagers dared not speak anything that might be construed as blaspheme against the Sheriff for fear of their tongues. The town slanted steeply from a sustaining, teeth-gritting place of forbearance and patience in the face of difficulty to an irrepressible location of chaos and excitement from which would be birthed legends and tales to survive through centuries. No one knew that then, though, and certainly not the legends themselves: for you don’t feel history the same way you don’t feel the shifting of mountains beneath your feet.
Prologue
It was a country shaped by changes. The commanding forces of past changes, the tug of future changes, and the immediate, unknown changing of the present, all showing their effects on the soil of the tiny land mass. The times were rough and raging then, as was the King. It is hard to say if the times made the King so or the King made the times so, but either way makes little difference to the story I am about to relate to you. Suffice to say that the King, the times and the land itself were eager for anything, snapping at war like a hound at a mouse. Tempers were quick, bellies were hungry, and minds were bright with schemes and strategies of every kind. Little could be done to gentle the great verdant bulk of it, and so nothing was. The country was left to squabble and spat within itself until Pope Urban II called for a war against the Turks, promising absolution from sins in return. Every man fit enough to stand that held God revered in their hearts (and some that didn’t, I dare say, such was the state of the place then) flocked and crowded to defend the Holy Land, lured by the cleansing of sins and the bright prospect of battle.
Left at home in England were the very young, the very old, the ill, all persons female, and the great gray presence of the rain, abandoned for the sun and glory of the Holy Land. They were taxed heavily to pay for the golden Crusades, though few could easily pay what they were asked. Punishment for tax evasion was severe, as was most punishment then, and many good people were reduced to thieving and outlawry to feed their families. England was a grim, dirty place.
It was, despite its faults, Marion’s country. Every sweep of field and dale was hers by her own claiming, and she would stand over it if it was the Devil himself that tried to take it from her. Several times he would, but that is premature knowledge.
Left at home in England were the very young, the very old, the ill, all persons female, and the great gray presence of the rain, abandoned for the sun and glory of the Holy Land. They were taxed heavily to pay for the golden Crusades, though few could easily pay what they were asked. Punishment for tax evasion was severe, as was most punishment then, and many good people were reduced to thieving and outlawry to feed their families. England was a grim, dirty place.
It was, despite its faults, Marion’s country. Every sweep of field and dale was hers by her own claiming, and she would stand over it if it was the Devil himself that tried to take it from her. Several times he would, but that is premature knowledge.
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