A/N

It has been a long time since I eagerly shipped Guy and Marian, though the brilliant fics that have been and are being written take me back to those days. But an exchange of comments made me come up with a stubborn plot idea that I could not shake out of my brain. The result, or the first half of it, is below. I hope to finish the second half in a couple of weeks.

It is set in an AU where the plot branches off in 212 with Marian escaping alongside Allan. Some s3 events are still supposed to take place, namely, John coming to Nottingham, Guy killing Vasey and briefly becoming Sheriff before turning on John. However, there are differences:

- obviously, Marian survives past the events of s2;
- Isabella does not appear (sorry, Bella fans, I could not think of a way of writing her into this!)
- nor does my beloved Meg (since this time I committed to a Guy/Marian plot);
- when Vasey dies, he stays dead.

The biggest change from the show was my attempt to stick to historical facts. To say that it was a headache is an understatement. To sum up, Richard was released on Feb 4 1194 and was in England from March 13th to May 12th 1194, and successfully besieged Nottingham Castle in late March to smoke out John's supporters, after which he raised tax money and left on a campaign against Philippe II that ultimately cost him his life. John, who was only 27 at the time (OK, I can *just* buy Toby being 27 ;) ) - Richard I was 36, same as RA!Guy - fled to Normandy but Richard saw him there in late May and pardoned him. John lost most of his titles and possessions, but got some of them back in 1195.

I tried to find where John was between June 1194 (after Evreux) and April 1999 (Richard's death), and ran into a complete absence of facts (in online sources at least). Eventually I decided that this gave me the right to invent what suited my plot, so in my version, John is in England for a few months from early through late 1195, though I suspect that in reality he was in Normandy. As for the rest, I mostly stuck to the show's characters and historical figures and tried not to distort real events too much.

If you feel like commenting, I will be glad to hear from you. And I know about the screwed up dialogue punctuation. Sorry, bad habit.

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Rats scurried through the rotten straw, and Marian shivered and squinted at the strip of dull grey light seeping through the slit overhead. Her thin woollen dress, now crumpled and soiled, offered little protection against the damp cold of the dungeon that had instilled itself in her very bones.

It won't be long now, she thought. By noon I shall be dead.

The priest had visited her before nightfall, hearing her confession and giving her last rites. Anytime now the guards would arrive at her cell to take her to the execution block.

At least, as a noblewoman, she was entitled to the axe instead of a rope.

She leaned against the cold, slippery stone and closed her eyes again.

It was not supposed to end like this.

*

The first weeks of living in the middle of the forest after they had cheated death at the hands of the Celts had been exhilarating. She had thanked the patron saints that had let her join Allan in their escape from the ill-fated expedition to the Holy Land. What the camp lacked in comfort it made up for in camaraderie and the thrill of daring exploits. What cachet Marian may have lost as a reluctant lady of a castle she more than regained as the lady who ruled the outlaw leader's heart. Those weeks were, figuratively speaking, her and Robin's honeymoon. Camp life had no place for privacy, and even though she occasionally felt frisky and gave in to Robin's amorous advances, their escapades never went beyond hurried kissing sessions in the underbrush and letting their hands roam each other's bodies in the dusk of the dying campfire. There would be time for more, but now that they were free and together there was no need for urgency. It would wait until the wedding night. Until the king had returned.

But weeks went by and turned into months, and the wedding bells were silent as Richard languished in an Austrian dungeon. By Christmas the outlaws had heard that Vasey and his lieutenant had been shipwrecked off the Portuguese coast en route to Acre and, having reached the shore by a mere miracle, were forced to return to England penniless and defeated at the very start of their enterprise. Where three months earlier Marian had been happy in equal measure to be away from both men, her jailers, tormentors, and political opponents, she now found herself rejoicing at the news of Guy's survival and regretting Vasey's. Now that the novelty of Robin's constant company had worn off, her thoughts stole with an alarming frequency to her leather-clad nemesis, and she chose not to think whether it had had anything to do with her subdued fervour for Robin's affections. Surely she could not possibly miss Guy! But she did, and denying it did not make the nagging feeling go away.

February finally brought with it the rumours of King Richard's release from captivity, and in the frenzied weeks that followed, as the king's supporters hunkered down and prayed for his safety, his opponents scrambled, depending on their propensity for recklessness, either to cover up their tracks or to make a last-ditch attempt to rally against him. Getting news of Richard's impending arrival had been a joyous occasion in Sherwood, with Robin transformed overnight from a hated outlaw into the local cause celebre, but it was not long before the gang began to drift apart. Robin, Marian, and Much hurried to London to wait for the king's triumphant return, while the others, unsure whether the king would be as quick to forgive their past misdeeds as he was sure to embrace his nobleman champion, stayed in the forest until things settled down.

In the midst of all the confusion, Richard's irresponsible brother, the spendthrift Prince John, deigned Nottingham worthy of his visit. The aim was, of course, to garner support and collect money, which in John's book amounted to the same thing. He was met by an obsequious and rather worried Sheriff Vasey and a very charming but consistently unlucky Guy of Gisborne who both assured John of their loyalty and rushed headlong to follow his taunts that pitched them against one another in a mortal struggle. Vasey seemed the shrewder one, able to see the cruel amusement behind John's earnest speeches, but ultimately he was the one to fall, struck down by his lieutenant who was tired of being kicked.

John took it in good humour, congratulating Guy on his accomplishment and even appointing him Sheriff. But within a week a bitter squabble brought the promotion to an abrupt end, and after sabotaging John's rash attempt at a coronation Guy ended up a wanted man, forced into an uneasy truce with the forest gang, while William Brewer took the Sheriff's office instead. However, Richard's subsequent arrival, followed by a quick progress through England and a siege in late March of Nottingham Castle that had become the last stronghold of John's supporters, unseated Brewer in turn and, most unexpectedly, brought back Guy as a reward for his fortuitous change of loyalties and his resulting prominent role in the siege. To everyone's surprise and the peasants' infinite chagrin, it looked like Sheriff Gisborne was there to stay after all.

Marian, travelling with the king's slow train while Richard and Robin and the other nobles had hurried ahead to lay siege, eagerly listened to updates from monks who had travelled back from the vanguard party to fetch medical supplies. She was alternately elated to see Robin's beloved patron back and John defeated, and worried for Guy and glad to see his ambitions fulfilled, try as she might to hide the latter thought from her betrothed when they finally reunited in Leicester. Marian met with the victorious besieging party there before she could set foot in Nottingham, and Robin grudgingly acknowledged that Gisborne had fought bravely by their side and had proved a valuable asset thanks to his knowledge of the castle, but was unwilling to expand the subject, leaving it to Marian to quietly find out the details.

Strangely, her wedding to Robin had not taken place upon the king's return. Richard was preoccupied with affairs of state, and Robin equally preoccupied with working his way back into the king's good graces and inner circle, so that Marian was swept aside. For the moment, she told herself. For the moment, Robin assured her. But once more, time went by as Richard juggled audiences and banquets and Robin hung onto his every word, and Marian waited and fretted and felt less and less useful by the day. The week of Richard's siege of Nottingham was followed by six more weeks of journeying around England, first south through Leicester and Oxford to Winchester for a 'wearing of the crown' ceremony in mid-April that looked, for all intents and purposes, like a second coronation, then back north to York for a royal council meant to raise more taxes, then finally to London, as Robin followed his sovereign and Marian tagged along, although it seemed increasingly as if Robin did not notice her anymore. So when, avoiding her eyes and smiling apologetically, he made a stammering announcement in early May that he was going with Richard to France in a week's time, she was neither sad nor surprised nor angered, just tired. It will only be for a few months, my love, Robin had implored her, we need to show that arrogant Philippe Auguste who rules the Angevin lands and then we shall come back, or you will join us there, and the king shall marry us. We. The King and I. Instead of being placated, Marian was stung by these reassurances. It seemed that the fact of the king performing the ceremony mattered more to her betrothed than the woman he was marrying.

Then they were gone. The ever-loyal Much had gone along with Robin. Will and Djaq, by then all but officially married – who would have thought they would beat us to it – had moved to York where the trade was better and Will could make a living with his carpentry as Djaq practiced as a healer. John stayed around but gave up on outlaw life after finding a caring woman among the villagers and settling down. After some soul-searching and considerable daydreaming, Allan plucked up the courage to present himself at Nottingham Castle and, to everyone's amazement including his own, was admitted back in the Sheriff's good graces and made master-at-arms. Archer, Robin's and Guy's newly discovered young half-brother, had followed King Richard and Robin to France in search of adventure and profit. The old life as she had known it was over.

Upon Robin's insistence, Marian took up residence at Ripley Convent when she came back in July after seeing Robin off at Portsmouth. It was understood that there was to be a donation that would pay for her board and bed (and the king had magnanimously supplied it), and she would stay until Robin returned or summoned her to France. At first Marian felt as if a set of steel claws had raked at her heart, but as the days went by and the year wound down, she realised, in her solitary rides in the crisp autumn air, that it had less to do with missing Robin than with feeling betrayed by him. He chose the king over me, she sighed in resignation. She had been a fool to have ever believed it possible that Robin could have chosen otherwise.

A month before Christmas, the summons arrived.

A guard clad in the Sheriff's livery rode to the convent, causing a minor uproar among the nuns who were unused to such disturbances, and demanded to see the Lady Marian of Knighton. As a laywoman who was by then of age, Marian did not need the Abbess's permission to speak to the guard, or to read the document addressed to her in private, or, for that matter, to depart for Nottingham two days later, unescorted save for the coachman. The letter seemed purely official business: in curt impersonal language, Marian was informed that her presence was required at the Council of Nobles meeting that was to convene in Nottingham three days thence. She had briefly pondered whether this could be a ruse to imprison her, but quickly dismissed it. If Guy had wanted that, he would have tried or done it already, and would have chosen a far less public venue. After all, checking with any neighbouring landholder to ascertain that the Council meeting was real was an easy matter. But whatever the purpose of the summons, Marian was too well aware that her knees had gone weak once she had read through the parchment. And whatever the reason, be it tricky weather or her recent lack of practice with fine attire, she had spent the entire evening prior to departure trying on all the dresses she had and peering at herself in the polished silver tray that she had pilfered from the vestry for temporary use as a mirror, trying to imagine what sort of impression she would make upon her entrance to the Great Hall.

The meetings as she remembered them under Vasey's rule had been mundane and even irksome, invariably tedious and frustrating occurrences where Vasey tried hard to outdo himself at casual cruelty, his lieutenant glared morosely from behind his back, and the cowed nobles bleated their weak objections or nodded their terrified agreement. Marian accompanied her father to keep track of affairs but found the meetings more akin to torture sessions to endure than grand occasions to look forward to. So why was she so fastidious about her dress now? Why was her heart racing in anticipation and her breath catching as she imagined herself walking down the familiar stairs…

…before his eyes?

Therein lay the answer, though for a while she had stoically refused to admit it. She was at once thrilled and anxious at the prospect of seeing Guy again for the first time in almost a year, and it had nothing to do with politics.

*

The carriage bumped and lurched on the uneven muddy road to Nottingham, and Marian, bundled up in a fur-lined cloak, tried in vain to doze to make up for lack of sleep the night before. She had gone to bed early but had spent most of the night tossing and turning, and got up before sunrise more tired than she had been in the evening.

They had not seen a glimpse of each other in months, and had not spoken for more than a year. Her escape on the eve of the voyage had planted her firmly in outlaw territory, and while Marian tried to make sense of her increasingly conflicted feelings in the middle of the forest, Guy seemed to have finally accepted where Marian's loyalties lay and, in his bitter resentment, seemed to have put her out of his mind altogether even as his pursuit of Robin Hood had continued. Then again, it was difficult to know what was on the man's mind; what news had filtered from the castle to Sherwood early in the year when he and Vasey came back had made it appear that his usually difficult temper was worse than ever, he hardly spoke a word in days, and had become disobedient and rude to Vasey, who he must have blamed for the misguided idea of the Holy Land voyage. Even chasing outlaws did not seem to interest him as much anymore.

Then Vasey was dead and Guy took his place with Richard's blessing, and things seemed to change.

The new Sheriff had been painted as the very devil before his hand had touched the castle keys, but subsequent months went a long way towards dispelling that notion. True, he was still gloomy and withdrawn most of the time; castle guards were subjected to constant drills and munitions inspections; and his famously low growling voice was heard all too often berating his unlucky subordinates. But left to his own devices, he showed a good deal of dedication to his post but little if any of Vasey's wanton cruelty and unstoppable bloodlust. In time townsfolk and peasants learned, to their endless bewilderment, that Sheriff Gisborne was not in the habit of randomly killing people of his own accord. In the months that followed his appointment, four men were hanged for murder and a couple of dozen were flogged for theft and other minor offences, while a handful of bad debtors had had to dwell in the dungeon while their families scraped together the silver to repay the debts, but even a harsh and prejudiced eye would find little in those punishments that was out of proportion to the crimes committed, or out of line with the laws of the day. Taxes were relentlessly collected but not raised above the preceding year's rates; city walls were finally patched up to stop stones from crumbling from atop the battlements; and the fear that Gisborne's tenure would be a bloody reign of terror and torture had spectacularly failed to materialise.

Marian kept track of these developments as the year went on; having been in an outlaw gang whose success had depended on gathering gossip had made it easy even while she was on the road with Robin. As she followed Guy's steps and missteps through the tasks of running city and shire, she was at first reluctantly, then enthusiastically willing to admit that the new Sheriff was not only an immense improvement on his predecessor, but someone even her father might not have entirely disapproved of.

As time went by, Marian gradually had to admit that her interest in Guy's affairs went a good deal beyond his duties of office. She caught herself trying to remember his voice. His face, as he watched her, talked to her, smiled at meeting her eyes, and above all, as he dashed back into the castle to defend it – defend her – against an approaching army, haunted her dreams and left her empty when she woke up. When she saw horsemen galloping through the forest – even when she saw the liveried guards – her heart skipped a beat at the mere thought of Guy being among the riders. Try as she might to deny it, she had become more attached to him during her sojourn in Nottingham than had been proper for a young lady betrothed to another. She missed him, and the thought of him being so close and yet beyond her reach was becoming her constant torment.

After Richard's return, while Marian waited for the matter of her Knighton inheritance to be settled – it had been requisitioned by Vasey but she had hoped to get at least part of it back - she was invited into the king's retinue alongside Robin. She half hoped to see Guy at the royal council in York, but any hope was quickly banished as she soon learned that the man had thought it prudent, perhaps wisely, to stay behind in Nottingham, sending the tax chests in his stead. He had spent a long evening in a one-on-one audience with the king upon his reappointment, but had then promptly busied himself once more with running his shire and sorting out affairs at Clifton, the modest landholding near Nottingham that he had been given instead of Locksley, which he had had to surrender to its owner. Robin and Marian had followed Richard out of York on his tour of the country, but when Robin was gone, Marian found herself back in Nottinghamshire, in the sleepy convent, and after the giddy whirlwind of Richard' return and fuss and pageantry of the impromptu royal court, the quiet and solitude was overbearing. And Guy was as present in her thoughts, and as unattainable in reality, as ever.

Except that now he had asked to see her.

Marian wrapped the cloak tighter around her shoulders and peered out of the carriage. The scenery had been much the same throughout her journey – meadows with dried grass touched with frost and patches of snow, dotted with oak trees, interspersed with tracts of forest and enlivened by the occasional dilapidated village – but now the meadows and even the trees looked familiar, and when her eyes caught the leaning silhouette of the old Nettlestone chapel, she knew that she had arrived.

Less than an hour later, Marian stepped out into the grey courtyard of Nottingham castle. She had never liked the place; even as a child when her father was Sheriff, the castle had seemed forbidding and inhospitable where Knighton Hall was cosy and welcoming and the forest exciting and full of promise. But now she looked at the worn stairs, the balcony next to the entryway, the turret window of the room that had been hers, and despite the heartbreak, fear and danger that she had faced in the castle in the months she had spent there, she could almost say she had missed it. No, she corrected herself, not the place. The memories. And the elusive but enduring inkling of what might have been.

It seemed that she had arrived slightly late as the courtyard was full of carriages but nearly empty of people, and Marian hurried up the stone steps, her legs unusually stiff and her thoughts embarrassingly muddled. She turned a corner and passed the narrow gallery – and almost too soon, she was at the top of the stairway at the end of the great hall, taking in the gathering.

Or rather, staring transfixed at the man who presided over it.

*

For a few moments, all she could hear was her heart thumping, seemingly, right inside her head. The long, dark, spacious hall had wrapped itself around the high-backed chair in the middle of the dais at its other end. Vasey had always seemed an oddity in it, an evil puppet perched crouching in the throne-like seat, hands writhing on the armrests as he spewed his twisted ideas. Guy, sprawling regally as he surveyed the assembly and listened half-heartedly to Lord de Saye relating the somewhat exaggerated tale of a disastrous fire that had destroyed two barns and a potter's shop in the village of Wysall that belonged to his estate, seemed more imposing than King Richard himself.

He looked different from the picture in her memory, and it took her a few moments to pick out the obvious changes. The promotion, or else a close acquaintance with Prince John's fashionable court, must have enticed him to alter his look. His well-made but utilitarian leather armour had been replaced by a jerkin of expensive tooled leather studded with spikes and eyelets and a pair of sleek velvet trousers with leather patches, and he sported a pair of soft-yet-shiny new boots of what looked like Spanish craftsmanship. His hair, too, was longer than she had remembered seeing it, sweeping his shoulders instead of brushing the nape of his neck. He looked proud, composed, commanding; there was no trace either of the barely suppressed anger or of the vicious amusement that had so often marred his features in Vasey's company, but Marian could not help noticing that he also looked tired and somewhat preoccupied, and a touch older. Was the office taking its toll?

But all that was registering at the back of her mind, as her only conscious thoughts were, I have finally seen him again. And dear Lord, why is he even more handsome than I remembered? And why did I put on the olive gown and not the red one? And how in heaven's name am I going to walk down these stairs without tripping?

Then he raised his head and noticed her, and time stopped.

Those eyes. She had seen them on so many different days, in a multitude of expressions from the heights of anger to the depths of tenderness, but they had never ceased to surprise her. She is stirred by me, he had once boasted behind her back, a taunt that Robin had pointedly repeated to her... more than once. Looking into his eyes now, she could not even begin to try arguing against that. And for the moment, as he stared at her as if the room and the castle and the entire town did not exist, he seemed equally stirred by her. Still. She smiled at him, in an unguarded mixture of greeting, relief, and quiet triumph at having retained some of the power over him.

And at that instant, the daydream shattered.

It was as if he had recovered from a momentary loss of memory and was immediately reminded of everything that had passed a year earlier, everything that had made him resent her. His face froze and his gaze grew hard and cold and hurt and profoundly distrustful. She remembered him looking at her like that, once or twice. When he had demanded to see the silver necklace as proof of her innocence. When he had set the burning torch to her father's manor.

When he had told her that she was nothing to him.

- Welcome to the Council of Nobles, my lady, - he said in a tone that was anything but welcoming. – I thank you for having taken the time to make the journey. There is a matter that directly concerns you and thus has made your presence today necessary, - he continued icily, emphasising the word today to make it clear that Marian's presence on any other occasion was uncalled for.

She took a few steps down the stairway, her knees refusing to bend and her knuckles white as she clutched at the banister to steady herself. Had it not been for a dozen pairs of eyes watching her, she would have stayed still for a while until she had regained at least a semblance of composure, but under the circumstances, forcing herself to walk was better than forcing herself to speak. That would have been a guaranteed way to make a mockery of herself.

When she had stumbled to the bottom of the stairs and could delay it no longer, she blurted out,

- Sir Guy, I am grateful for the invitation. It was no trouble at all.

It was true. And despite her best efforts to appear calm, she had been unable to hide the undertone of desperation from her voice, though she saw his face stiffen even further at being called Sir Guy, as if that address had been inappropriately informal. What does he expect me to call him, she wondered forlornly, Lord Sheriff?

But as she awkwardly took her seat at one end of the loose semicircle facing the dais, she reflected that he was not being all that unreasonable after all. How many times had she used their familiarity as a way to wrap Guy's will around her finger? How many times had her earnest entreaties hidden another agenda? Had she not encouraged his advances one day only to spurn them the next? Had she not promised him to stay by his side and refrain from stirring up trouble, only to break both promises mere days later? She had lied to him, mocked him, used him.

Betrayed him.

She had indeed lost the right to call Guy by his name, but back then it had not occurred to her how badly she might want that right some day. And now that they were nothing to each other but the Lady of Knighton and Sheriff Gisborne, she gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut against the thought that they would never be Guy and Marian anymore.

This meeting had turned out to be the worst torture session that eclipsed anything that Vasey's depravity had cooked up. Usually, Marian had been a vocal participant in these gatherings, defying rule and custom alike to state her opinions. This time, it took all her willpower to stop herself from crying as she sat silently, her fingers worrying the fabric of her gown.

She yearned for the meeting to be over so that she could be away from the public eye and could try to speak to Guy alone, and yet she dreaded his likely reaction so much that she almost wished it would instead run for hours just to give her a chance to steal a few more glances at Guy with impunity. Then again, that was a torment in itself as she fixed her eyes on his handsome face and graceful frame and thought for the hundredth time that she could not have him - the man who had once begged her on his knees to marry him.

In the end, she was relieved when the matter that had required her attendance came up.

- My lords, now that we have gone through the tax collection roster and settled the matter of rebuilding after the Wysall fire, there is an issue that concerns the Lady Marian of Knighton that both she and you need to be aware of, - he spoke as if Marian were not in the room. - As you may know, the lady is heir to the Knighton estate that was taken into the previous Sheriff's stewardship two years ago, - she noted that he avoided using Vasey's name. - I spoke to His Highness King Richard when he visited York and he expressed the desire to have it returned to the lady, and had intended to draw up a royal edict to that effect, but was pre-empted from doing so. Nonetheless, given his express intention, I am hereby restoring the estate to Her Ladyship, with this past Michaelmas as the effective date and the past two months' rents due to her, - he picked a rolled-up deed from the stack before him and held it out to Marian who had staggered to retrieve it, - so that she may be free to dispose with the land and any rents that it may provide, subject to paying taxes to the shire. However, since the manor had been destroyed earlier, - he looked down but kept his voice steady, - and since the Knighton rents for the past year have been appropriated by the Sheriff in their entirety, Her Ladyship is, by way of compensation, exempted from paying taxes for a full year, until next Michaelmas.

The announcement was met with silence and a few approving nods and curious glances in Marian's direction. Overwhelmed with gratitude and thrilled at the prospect of having her estate and her freedom again, she was nonetheless inexplicably frustrated. Part of that, she knew, came from rankling at King Richard's forgetfulness. Yet an even greater part came from the deliberate manner in which Guy had made the announcement. By bringing it up as an official matter at the council meeting, and never addressing her directly, he had not even given her the opportunity to properly thank him for what had, after all, been made possible as much by his goodwill as by the king's disposition. And Marian felt stubbornly, irrationally offended by it. He did not even want her to acknowledge his good deed as much as it deserved to be.

Still, she did her best.

- I am profoundly thankful to you, my lord, - she had made the address sound as official as her unsteady voice would permit, - for giving Knighton back to me, and... for making it possible for me to quickly rebuild the manor using the rents. It will make an immeasurable difference in my life, and I shall always remember your actions with gratitude.

Not only giving Knighton back to me, she thought, but all the other gestures I never thanked you for while I had the chance. Or thanked you grudgingly, or with mock sincerity when I hardly meant it. His many gifts, though awkwardly given. His constant concern for her safety. His quiet attempts to ease her father's plight while he was imprisoned in the castle. Too many little things to remember.

- My lady. – he inclined his head and went on to announce the next issue, and even though the acknowledgement had been minimal, Marian was at least pleased that he had not dismissed her response altogether.

She paid little attention during the remainder of the meeting. Encouraged by Guy having apparently relented on her somewhat, she once again rallied her resolve and gathered her wandering thoughts to try and think of a way to get his attention after the meeting, and was bitterly disappointed when at its conclusion, Guy got up abruptly and bid everyone a curt farewell before sauntering up the stairs. She watched him, her hands clenched into anxious fists, resisting the urge to run after him. But as the lords filed out of the room, bowing to her as she passed, she was struck by an idea.

She knew the castle inside and out, probably as well as Guy himself. And as a noble lady well known in the castle and no longer an outlaw, she should not expect any opposition from the guards; surely she could talk her way around them with a convenient pretext of having suddenly remembered an important matter to discuss with the Sheriff? What, then, was stopping her from staying a little longer and seeking him out? So she set out along the gallery that ran the length of the keep wall towards what had been Vasey's study and, with any luck, had become Guy's.

In that, at least, she was not disappointed. As the rounded the corner into the inner corridor, she saw Guy walking purposely toward the study door, still carrying the scrolls. He fumbled with the key just outside, trying not to drop the documents, when Marian's approach made him instantly straighten up as the scrolls tumbled to the floor.

She rushed to help him pick them up but he had been quicker, hastily grabbing the rolls of parchment and standing up to face her with the same stony expression that he had used on her for most of the meeting. He almost took a step back before checking himself.

- My lady?

- Guy… - she began weakly and instantly regretted it as the displeasure made itself evident in his face. – My lord, - she tried again, - I know I have said this already but I wanted to thank you again for… correcting the king's omission in giving me Knighton. And I wanted to say, - she continued hastily as Guy looked at her impatiently, - that I would be happy to attend the Council meetings in the future. I shall seek to limit my comments to matters I am familiar with, but given my knowledge of my father's duties, I might hope to be of use.

She was clutching at straws. She had never expected herself to essentially promise to keep her mouth shut, but neither had she been prepared to accept that things had come to this between her and Guy, to formal words and cold exchanges, and she had never given a thought to the possibility that she might not be welcome in his presence.

Yet she was promptly reminded of it.

- That will not be necessary, - he said calmly but sternly, - my lady. The majority of matters are highly routine. You are exempt from taxes for most of the coming year so that tax collection will be of little concern to you for a while. If there is a need for your presence I shall be certain to make it known to you. In the meantime, you may pick up the Knighton accounts and the past two months' rents from Allan-a-Dale whenever it suits you. Good day, my lady.

He opened the door, bowed to her, and was gone.

Her fists clenched once more, Marian banged one of them on her thigh in frustration as she hurried back to the castle entrance, trying desperately to keep a calm appearance. No use; she had barely made it to the end of the corridor before sinking to the floor just past the corner and burying her face in her hands amid helpless sobbing.

*

She came back to the castle the following morning to find Allan, having spent the night at an inn, and was surprised at how awkward even that meeting turned out to be. Pleased as he was to see her at first, Allan was clearly uncomfortable and for once unsure about how he should behave with someone who had witnessed his loyalties waver between Robin and Guy and who had been alternately betrothed to both men herself, now that his current patron was not her betrothed and was moreover keen to keep her out of his mind. After mumbling a couple of questions about her well-being, life at Ripley, and news from Robin, Allan handed her the Knighton treasury, a rather grand name for the modest chest covered in scuffs and scratches, the iron strips along its ridges edged with rust. Nonetheless, the chest was almost full, the two months' rents Guy had promised giving her enough silver to purchase logs and hire workmen to rebuild the manor.

- So, er, take care of yourself, Marian, - he tried to force a smile that came out crooked.

- You too, Allan, - she said, smiling sadly back at him, - be sure to come and visit me at Knighton!

- Oh, I will, I will! – he said, nodding just a touch too enthusiastically, and Marian knew that he would do no such thing.

Thus she returned to Ripley a richer woman and once more a landowner, but even lonelier than before. She spent Christmas drained and forlorn, longing for a distraction from the humiliating disappointment she had suffered at Nottingham castle, and as soon as the festivities were over she threw herself whole-heartedly into Knighton's affairs. Winter was far from the best time of year for construction, but fortunately for her, the cold spell stopped early and the ground thawed but stayed mostly dry, and she managed to secure a stock of seasoned logs from a woodcutter in nearby Barton, outbidding Lord de Saye who seemed rather put out when he realised that the rebuilding of his barn would have to wait. She left the convent and, taking advantage of the local bailiff's hospitality until her manor was finished, spent long days in and around Knighton, bargaining for wood and stone and nails, arguing with the surly stonemason's apprentice and instructing the carpenters and picking the wares at the weaver's shop to build and furnish the new hall – and while often tired and occasionally exasperated, she was almost happy. She had helped draw the plans and done her best to recreate her old home as closely as was practicable, and watching the building go up and take shape filled her heart with joy.

It also helped to keep Guy off her mind. After the heartbreak of their encounter, she was initially even more determined to try and win him back as his image dwelled fresh and clear in her memory. But gradually she was able to bring her emotions under control and, forcing herself to assume that she would never see the man again – an assumption that was not entirely realistic and initially quite distressing but ultimately calming in its finality – went on to remind herself of all Guy's faults and the wrongs he had committed, and was pleased when it worked, to an extent at least. She even tried to direct her thoughts to imagining a happy life with Robin after their eventual wedding, but somehow the picture failed to coalesce and somehow King Richard was always part of it. Robin had written to her three or four times in the preceding months, relating their campaigns and politicking, and though the usual dose of I-miss-you's and my-love's had been there, and she had replied in kind, she almost wondered if by then they were merely carrying on a prolonged charade.

By Easter the manor was finished and furnished, and she cheerfully moved in and put together a village feast for the Knighton peasants, but when the excitement wore off and the routine set in, things began to look drearier than ever. Day after day went by, and there was no grand cause to fight for, no adversaries to outwit, no Robin to make fiery, infectious speeches about politics and justice and no Guy to keep her on her toes and, frankly, to let her feast her eyes on. Nothing, just the small chores that ground down her patience. The peasants were happy under her stewardship, the neighbours were mostly in their fifties and uniformly boring regardless of age, and whatever dastardly schemes might be brewing at Windsor where Prince John, forgiven by his brother but stripped of the majority of his titles and possessions, held a semblance of a court-in-exile, she was not privy to them. What was she supposed to do, embroidery?

She grew restless. She rode out of Knighton every day and gazed across the fields to the grey bulk of Nottingham castle in the distance, and let her horse pick its way along the meandering forest paths, smiling at the memories of infatuation and adventure that lingered there. She grew angry with both Robin and Guy, the former for abandoning her and the latter for spurning her while refusing to dislodge himself from her mind. She was desperate for a new distraction.

Eventually she decided that she needed to leave Knighton. Not for good, but to be gone long enough to soothe her mind and make the memories fade. And if she was fortunate, she would find something to channel her energies into. Visiting Will and Djaq was her first thought, but she ended up dismissing it as they would be sure to remind her too much of Robin and of the times when the gang were still together in the forest that, despite the peril and hardship, had held the promise of a bright future. When the king returned, she smiled bitterly. She then thought briefly of going to France to join Robin, but with her French being dangerously close to atrocious, a voyage of this length to an uncertain destination in a war-torn land – Robin's last letter had been dispatched from Vaudreuil before Easter but she understood that they kept moving around as Philippe pressed his temporary advantage – seemed too much of a risky proposition even for her. Besides, her pride rebelled against the idea of her needing to seek Robin out. She also had relatives, her father's cousin and his family, in nearby Sheffield, and so thought of going there, but they had not been particularly close over the years and she suspected that boredom would catch up with her there all too soon.

That left, ironically, an adversary rather than her friends as the most likely destination. After some reflection, she decided that she would use the pretext of her newly restored status as a landowning lady to present herself to Prince John, whom she had missed in Nottingham while they were gone to London to greet Richard. And two weeks before midsummer, having spent a small fortune on a new wardrobe and a new carriage, she left Knighton Hall for Windsor Castle.

*

The journey had been tedious but the pleasant weather and long summer days had made it bearable, and while Marian did not quite share her maid Sarah's cheerful excitement at the prospect, the sense of intrigue and challenge awaiting her filled her with anticipation.

Unable to support his lavish and leisurely lifestyle on the meagre income from his Irish possessions, Prince John had established a court of sorts in Windsor, one of his father's castles that Richard had graciously let him occupy, and entertained the rich and profligate who were willing to make ample donations to keep that court running. Most nobles, even those who had supported John earlier, had sided with Richard upon his return, but some were circumspect enough to hedge their bets seeing as Richard risked his life daily in his French campaign, and so paid court to the prince. Others were merely lured by the carefree and dissolute pastimes that his patronage allowed. John welcomed everyone, using his considerable charms to make the nobles feel valued by him and even indebted to him for the hospitality, even if their donations had paid for it in the first place. He saw each new arrival if not as a potential supporter, then at least as a potentially valuable pawn in his games.

The prince had bid Marian a gracious welcome, thanking her eloquently for her gift of expensive cloth and furs, and seemed rather taken with her, so much so that she had to frequently invoke her imminent wedding to one of Richard's favourites in an attempt to keep John's notoriously lecherous attentions at bay. It may not have stopped him in the least had he not been rather occupied at the moment with a new Occitan mistress, and Marian said her daily prayers that the lady's charms would hold their spell for weeks to come.

Windsor Castle, though recently expanded and largely rebuilt in stone in King Henry's reign, was still a relatively modest affair, little more than a big irregular rotund stump of a keep, a few smaller wooden buildings flanking the bailey, and a curtain wall. Marian almost smiled when she first saw it; Nottingham Castle was rather grand by comparison - no wonder John had reportedly liked it so much. Still, inside the keep there was plenty of space for a grand assembly hall, a few opulent common rooms, and living quarters, and while Marian thought wistfully of the privacy of her own quarters in Nottingham, not to mention her manor at Knighton, the room she ended up sharing with two other ladies was large and sunny, and their chatter helped keep away gloomy thoughts.

Time passed in hunts and dinners and music and dances, and Marian barely noticed how a month went by. She made a few friends, or at least good acquaintances, among the young ladies, and their confidences had provided her with nuggets of information that were of more value than mere gossip. In between the usual inane tales of who was courting who and what illicit liaisons had been spotted and who seemed to be the prince's latest conquest, Marian learned the names of most of the castle's current and recent guests, and with a bit of judicious probing, disguised as a young woman's interest in eligible men, was able to reconstruct their backgrounds and likely loyalties. She was amazed at how many details the young noblewomen were able to relate without ever realizing the political implications. For her, connecting the dots and looking beneath the surface was a fascinating pursuit.

John's reconciliation with Richard was little more than a masterful pretence that had succeeded at tugging at his headstrong but chivalrous elder brother's heartstrings. Richard was hot-tempered and notoriously cruel in his anger, but a show of humility and repentance never failed to work on his Christian conscience. Moreover, he still remembered John's defection to his side in their war with their own father as a token of John's allegiance to him instead of seeing it for what it was, a sign of fickleness and treachery.

Initially John was indeed happy to have escaped with his life and the near-useless title of Lord of Ireland, though his outrageous behaviour years earlier had made him highly unpopular and unwelcome in his remaining domain. He even struck a blow against his erstwhile ally Philippe Auguste with his dastardly capture of Evreux and the massacre of its garrison soon after receiving Richard's pardon. But when the French king easily recaptured the town and later seized John's baggage train in retribution just before a truce was struck, John lost his zeal and begged Richard to let him retire to England. It was not long before he resumed his earlier plotting with a vengeance and, and a few grovelling missives, re-established an active and utterly subversive correspondence with Philippe. Windsor had its share of Norman and Angevin guests; many of them came and went every few weeks to see to their estates. In public John treated all of them with the same mixture of bonhomie and lewd jokes, and it took a keen eye to discern which of them enjoyed the prince's particularly close confidence and were thus likely to be using their travels to carry letters between John and the French sovereign whose content, if discovered by Richard, would spell a terrible reckoning for the prince.

In truth, even though Richard was unaware of the state of affairs at John's court, he was a wise enough monarch to have learned from his previous mistake with the inept and unpopular Longchamp and left a competent and astute administrator in his stead this time around. Hubert Walter, as principled as he was intelligent, had literally waged war in the preceding months to stop John's ambitious plans, laying siege to castles and lobbying among the nobility, and where Richard may have been willing to give his brother the benefit of the doubt regarding his repentance and loyalty, Walter harboured no such illusions and kept an eye on John's entourage with the help of a few trusted nobles who made a convincing show of enjoying and sustaining John's hospitality.

For Marian, this meant a return to her element, to spying and scheming in hostile territory, and she relished the thrill. She was particularly suspicious of the Frenchmen who, she correctly surmised, numbered Philippe's agents among them. Her French was not good enough for easy conversation or effortless eavesdropping, but she tried to keep track of their comings and goings, their dealings with John, and the whereabouts of their quarters – they were almost always afforded private rooms – hoping to use this to her advantage and to King Richard's benefit. She no longer had the ardent faith in the sovereign that Robin had once instilled in her, but her innate sense of justice rebelled against John's backstabbing and made her eager to expose him, or at least curb his treacherous ways.

Still, Marian could not help feeling apprehensive. She had put herself in danger before, true, but it had always happened with adversaries whose tactics, mindset, and failings she was well familiar with, and there had always been the sense that if the worst came to the worst, one of them would listen to her desperate pleas and ultimately protect her, even at the cost of his life, though it had carried an implicit price for her. But she was not in Nottingham anymore. At Windsor, she suspected that if she were caught, her captors would not be anywhere near as lenient in deciding her punishment, or as incongruously chivalrous about administering it, as Guy had been. If there was anything that charms and doe-like looks could get her here, it was merely a more disgusting kind of violence rather than forgiveness of misdeeds. Suddenly, her previous exploits seemed childish and tame by comparison.

*

From the moment Marian had set her eyes on Raoul Taisson, she felt danger. There was a deliberate, measured quality about the man's quiet voice and soft smiles that spoke of controlled menace, of ambition and ruthlessness and dishonesty that made her skin creep. But after a few days she began to wonder if she had been wrong and Taisson was just another visiting Frenchman enjoying the food and wine and a pretty mistress, as John all but ignored him.

Then late one night, as the rowdy guests, drunk after the long banquet, lingered around the table amid crude jokes and equally crude attempts at flirting, Marian climbed the stairs to the top of the keep to watch the thin moon rise from the crenellated battlements. The keep was at Windsor's core, protected by the high and massive curtain walls that surrounded the castle, and there were no guards at its top. She had discovered the vantage point two weeks earlier and had since come up there almost daily, whenever she longed for a moment of peace and quiet and solitude. It was a breezy night, and she soon started shivering and was ready to go back when she heard voices, followed by footsteps coming up, and froze. The muffled conversation was in French, but one of the voices was unmistakable. The singsong tenor, enunciating the words with cultured precision. Prince John. And she recognized the other voice, more level and hard-edged, as Taisson's.

Marian crouched under the parapet, hidden from view deep in the night shadows. She cursed her poor French as the meaning of words and phrases escaped her. Still, she understood enough.

...leave at dawn...

...it is time...

...have them safely in my room...

...now or never...

...we'll be finally rid of the damned Yes-and-No...

...assure Le Roi Dieudonnè of my devotion...

...guard them with my life...

...great faith in you...

Her blood ran cold. She had known Richard's Occitan nickname from Robin, and recognised the flattering epithet that had been Philippe's moniker since birth. Her worst fears were confirmed; encouraged by a string of setbacks Richard had recently suffered in Normandy at Philippe's hands, John was rearing for a strike.

As soon as the two men had walked far enough to the other side of the keep, Marian darted noiselessly for the stairs and after a few slow creeping steps, raced the rest of the way down. Taisson had something locked in his room that was at the heart of this plot, and had promised to guard that something with his life, whatever 'they' were – letters, Marian suspected. She needed to get to Taisson's room before he did, to find out more so that she could warn Richard.

Moments later she was hurrying down the gallery outside the Frenchman's room, almost crying with frustration. The top of the keep may have been deserted, but the gallery had an impressive contingent of guards, with a pair of stocky men posted right outside Taisson's door. So much for a chance to pick the lock. That left the room window, and before she had thought it through, Marian was on the floor above, squeezing through a window in a niche just off the stairway landing that was mercifully devoid of guards.

In retrospect it had been sheer stupidity. At that instant, however, Marian was rather proud of herself, not only for having spotted the exact position of Taisson's chamber in the keep, but also for having studied the outside of the keep closely enough to know that there was a ledge running around it that passed just a foot or two above the window of that chamber. It was impossible to negotiate for a normal person. But not for the former Nightwatchman.

Still, even for her it was a hair-raising experience. She was grateful for the clouds that had by then obscured the moon and masked her from view of the guards on the curtain walls as she inched along the ledge, but the darkness made her painstaking progress even more perilous. Yet the fear that she could be too late, that Taisson might return to the room before her, or catch her there, pushed her forward. Finally, seeing the dark gap of the small window below, she crouched and, grabbing the ledge for dear life, swung down – and after a moment of sheer terror, felt the stone beneath her feet.

The window was ajar to let some air in, and Marian breathed a brief sigh of relief before leaping down to the floor, though in the next instant she froze as she wondered about her escape route. She had figured that she would leave the way she had come, but the window was high above the floor and it looked like she would need to move a piece of furniture beneath it to step on in order to lever herself back up. Even if she managed to do it quietly enough not to alert the guards outside, the arrangement was bound to arouse Taisson's suspicions later. Perhaps I can hide under the bed and sneak out after he is gone, she wondered before crouching to see the space beneath the bed frame taken up by three chests of what must have been Taisson's belongings. It was not looking good.

However, her thoughts soon returned to the pressing matter that had brought her there. She cast a glance around the chamber looking for a possible repository for the letters. The room was large but sparingly furnished; aside from the bed and the chests under it, which she dared not move, it held another long chest that had turned out to contain bed linens, a chair, and a writing desk in a corner. A fireplace graced the wall opposite the bed; despite the summertime, the thick stone walls made the castle rooms damp and chilly, and the remnants of a fire danced around the glowing embers, warming the chamber for the night. After the brief survey, Marian's eyes focused on a plain wooden box on top of the writing desk. It certainly seemed the most likely place.

Not surprisingly, it was locked.

Marian swore under her breath. She was not unprepared for this; aside from the usual dagger pin in her hair, her Windsor attire boasted a jewel-studded girdle that held a pair of picklocks, and she prided herself on her proficiency with those. Still, any delay meant less time left to get out, and if she pried the lock open, it was practically impossible to re-lock it to avoid detection. With a growing sense of dread, she wondered how she would get through this.

But there was no going back either, and the thought that the contents of the box might spell the difference between King Richard's life and death kept her fingers busy as she manoeuvred the smaller picklock in the keyhole of the box. Maybe Taisson will forget that he locked the box. Maybe I can squeeze under the bed, after all. Too many maybe's already.

Her work done, she lifted the lid and almost smiled as she saw the tight vellum scrolls inside. The first two were letters of safe conduct, one bearing Prince John's seal and the other graced by that of Philippe Auguste, for England and France, respectively. Two more were even less interesting, a record of expenses and a short letter to Taisson's mistress at Windsor, apologising for his sudden departure and hoping for a reunion later, no doubt to be delivered the following morning. She rolled these up again, momentarily worried that the clues to the plot were hidden elsewhere.

Then she got to the remaining two scrolls, and knew that her hunch had been right.

Each of the documents was tied up with silk string held together with John's seal.

She pulled the dagger pin from her hair and, heating the blade over the dying fire, carefully lifted the seals and frantically unrolled the vellum, straining to make out the French.

The first letter was addressed to Hugh le Brun of Lusignan, an important nobleman in Poitou who had thrown his support behind Richard, and it urged him to reconsider his reluctance to side with John's cause. "You have no reasons to hesitate now", it said, "seeing as things are going for my brother, I dare hope that the tide has turned again. Once he is no longer an obstacle, our fortunes shall be greatly improved and you shall be amply rewarded for your loyalty". Loyalty, Marian snorted. Betrayal sounds more like it.

She turned to the second one - and as her eyes scanned the florid, sloppy handwriting, she had to remind herself to breathe. It was a letter to Philippe Auguste; apparently, John had arrived at a juncture where he thought he could not afford to spend time on circumspect hints, and apparently he had the utmost trust in Taisson as a courier, for his treachery was spelt out in all its hideousness.

"First we must get rid of the insufferable Breton spawn", John wrote, referring to his young nephew Arthur of Brittany whom Richard had chosen as his successor to John's indignation, "so that no short-sighted designs of my pig-headed brother shall stand in our way". Then, he continued, "we must swiftly eliminate the menace of Acre as such", no doubt referring to Richard himself. "Hugh le Brun is still dithering but Renaud de Dammartin is loyal to me as ever, and I have great faith in the excellent Aymer d'Angoulème to ensure that the desired outcome is achieved should Renaud fail". She was stunned; Renaud of Dammartin, though once a childhood friend of Philippe's, had long broken with him and was considered a faithful ally of Richard's in the current campaign, and the revelation that he was John's double agent and a potential assassin was almost as shocking as the mention of Aymer as a backup was to be expected. Her thoughts were racing; she had to find a way to warn Richard before it was too late.

And at that moment, she heard the key turning in the door's lock.

Time slowed down, and in her light-headed state, Marian felt as if she was watching herself in the room from somewhere in the middle of the ceiling. She cast another frantic look around; she could crouch beside the bed, but it was a matter of moments before Taisson would see her there and raise an alarm, and she had no time to squeeze under the bed. The long chest was full, the fireplace still hot, and there was no place to hide. Then the door was open, and Taisson had half closed it when his eyes fell on her and went wide in shock for an instant before narrowing in anger.

- What do you think you are doing here? – he hissed in heavily accented English, turning back to yell for the guards.

Marian panicked. Her only weapon was the dagger pin that she had used to open the seals, and once the guards were inside she could not fight the three of them, all of them armed – not while wearing a dress, in any case. She did the only thing she could think of. Grabbing her dagger from the top of the desk, she flung it at the Frenchman's neck.

She had hoped to quickly and quietly disable him and drag him inside before the guards could realise what had happened, locking the door behind her and climbing out onto the ledge. It was disastrous enough, meaning that John would know that someone had seen the letters, and that she would be a marked woman if Taisson survived; at least she would escape with her life and could take the scrolls with her as proof of John's treachery.

But it was not meant to be. Her dagger had found Taisson's jugular, and the man collapsed backwards in the doorway, blood spewing everywhere.

There was no way out now. In a final desperate move, Marian grabbed the two letters and flung them on top of the canopy draped over the bed, and took the rest of the scrolls and threw them onto the red embers in the fireplace. Then the guards had rushed in, and she knew that she was dead, and that dying quickly was perhaps her best hope.

*
Marian's eyes snapped open as footsteps echoed through Windsor Castle's dungeon and keys jangled in the jailer's hands. The man stopped at the bars of her cell, accompanied by two guards, the expressionless eyes in his bland face squinting against the gloom as he worked the locks open and silently motioned her outside. Marian rose and, despite the chill and her sorry state, drew herself up to her full height. 'I am ready', she said defiantly, her chin raised as she walked out.

She had been through this once before. This time, however, there was no one to save her.

.

End of Part 1

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