The Dragon of Throxenby, Part 8
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By the time they arrived in Sherwood Forest, Quenilda's life had been reduced to short bursts of wakefulness twice a day. She and Sir Guy were allowed out of the wagon each morning and evening to attend to their needs, have an inadequate meal of bad ale and heavy, dark bread, and speak a few sentences of conversation with their captors before being forced to swallow yet another dose of poppy juice. Although Quenilda shivered constantly in the cold and damp, she was determined not to let the circumstances overwhelm her.
By trying to make polite conversation during the meals, Quenilda had discovered that both Hugh and Luke were related to Osbert. Hugh was Osbert's brother, and Luke seemed to be a nephew, but was not Hugh's son. Luke had also lived in or near Nottingham for a time, and had firsthand knowledge of Robin Hood, and also Sir Guy, whom he blamed for the death of both parents and the fact that his older brother was now in the Holy Land, probably forever. Hugh spoke the least, and was also the least violent of the three, keeping Luke and Osbert from beating Sir Guy too badly or too often.
More importantly, however, Quenilda had woken up slightly earlier than usual one afternoon to find that Luke was in the back of the wagon with them, refilling the skin of ale from a small keg. She'd watched him and daydreamed lazily of pouring all their poppy juice into that keg, so that they'd be the ones to fall asleep, and she could escape with Sir Guy. The idea didn't let her go, and when she was fully awake, she began to actively look for ways to implement it. Although she had her own tiny supply of poppy juice in her emergency bag, which still hung around her neck and shoulder, she couldn't find a way to prevent the men from drugging them first, so that any advantage they'd have from the sleeping men would be cancelled out.
That day, she fell asleep without solving the problem, but the next morning, listening to Osbert hawk and spit, Quenilda was reminded of vomiting. If she could just expel the poppy juice from her stomach before it took effect, she might have a chance to stay awake. Did she still have that mixture in her bag that would induce vomiting, or would she have to put her finger down her throat? And how could she do either if her hands were still tied behind her back? She sighed; by the time she'd be able to implement her plan, they'd be in Robin Hood's clutches already!
In the night, Quenilda had snuggled up to Sir Guy for warmth and comfort; now she felt him shift slightly. She moved so that her lips were closer to his ear and whispered, "Sir Guy? Are you awake?"
He didn't answer for a long moment, and she started to believe he was still asleep, but then he sighed and whispered back, "Yeah."
"I've got a plan, but I need some help. Could you try to untie my hands?"
Just then, however, the wagon shifted as Osbert climbed up onto the back and came in through the opening. He grabbed Quenilda first, wrestling her out of the wagon and into Luke's waiting arms. For all his cruelty to Sir Guy, Luke was quite gentle with Quenilda, and sometimes even smiled at her. Now, because it was still raining, he took her under the awning before starting to untie her.
"We're coming up on Sherwood Forest now," Luke said as he picked at the knots around her wrists. "It'll all be over soon."
"What are you going to do with me once it's all over?" Quenilda asked. She'd put the same question to Osbert the day before, but had only received a disdainful grunt for an answer.
"Leave you with Robin Hood, I guess," Luke said. "He'll probably find a way to get you home, or at least send a message to your family. But don't worry, he won't hurt you."
"Even though I came to help Sir Guy?" she asked.
Luke finished with the rope, then came around to stand in front of her. "I met Robin a few times, and my brother lived with him in the forest, and told me a lot about him. He's a good man. He'll understand if you haven't seen the real Gisborne, if you've been taken in by his attempt to act noble and kill the dragon and all that. I'll put in a good word for you, tell him how you try to help everybody with your herbs and your healing, no matter who they are or what they've done. Robin'll make sure you get back safe and sound."
"Thank you," Quenilda said sincerely, even as part of her mind was thinking, but I have seen the real Gisborne! I've seen his pain for what he's done! He's not the monster that everybody thinks he is!
But now was not the time to defend Sir Guy with words; now was the time to concentrate on her escape plan while she was still awake. After tying her wrists loosely to each other, Luke put the noose of the other rope around her neck and let her walk behind a bush. Quenilda immediately took the opportunity to open her bag to see if she still had the emetic. She did, though the dose was only enough for one person. Returning it to the bag, she also found something else at the very bottom – a small knife with a very sharp blade that she used for slicing herbs and roots. Why hadn't she looked before? Allowing herself a short, triumphant grin, she slipped the knife into the side of her belt, as far around to the back as she could get it with her hands connected. When she'd made sure that it was hidden horizontally and not peeking out at top or bottom, she bit down her jubilation and returned to the camp.
Hugh handed her a chunk of dark bread and she slowly chewed off a piece, watching as the men brought Sir Guy out of the wagon. They'd already hobbled his ankles as though expecting him to try and run, but far from attempting to escape the minute his foot hit the ground, Sir Guy struggled instead to even stand, let alone walk on his stiff, cramped legs. Osbert kicked him once in the side of the leg, and he stumbled, falling to his knees in the mud. Keeping his head down, looking beaten in more ways than one, Sir Guy got slowly to his feet, but at the last moment, he pretended to fall against Osbert, and gave him a shove that sent the other man staggering. Osbert shoved back, then pummeled Sir Guy with his fists.
Watching Sir Guy unable to defend himself from the blows, Quenilda felt something give inside of her. Marching over to Osbert, she demanded, "Why do you torment him so? He is not the dragon who ate your daughter!"
"Because he came too late," Osbert grunted, but he stopped. Not meeting Quenilda's eyes, he reached for the rope with the noose in it, and placed it around Sir Guy's neck, then added, "Weeks too late."
"He didn't even know that there was a dragon!" Quenilda protested. "Why do you not torment me instead?"
Osbert finally looked at her, utterly baffled at her question, and she went on, "For not choosing the dragon's lot that week instead of Matilda? One reason is as good or as bad as another if you're looking to make others suffer simply because you yourself are hurting."
"Shut your mouth!" Osbert snarled. "I wasn't planning to hit you, but I might just start now!"
"If you—" Quenilda started, and Osbert actually lifted his hand as he stepped towards her. She flinched back instinctively, and when he relented, she added shakily, "Osbert, please. If you keep beating Sir Guy, you might well kill him before you even get to Robin Hood, and then what will your reward be?"
"Is that one of your dreams?" Osbert sneered.
"Yes!" Quenilda announced, and hoped through sheer force to disguise the fact that she was not telling the truth. It must have worked, because Osbert looked back uncertainly at Sir Guy, then returned to his work of re-tying the man's bonds, this time without violence. Glancing over at her, Sir Guy lifted his eyebrows in silent query, and it took all of Quenilda's self-control not to look away.
When they had resumed their journey and the men had put them back in the wagon, Sir Guy murmured, "You shouldn't have told them about your dream, you should have just let them carry on."
"And let them kill you?" Quenilda demanded, wrestling herself from her stomach onto her left side, then reaching into her belt for the tiny knife.
Sighing in the same unenthusiastic way as Humphrey and Godfrey, Sir Guy replied, "Better them than Hood. I wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction."
Gripping the knife in her hand, Quenilda pushed herself a little closer to Sir Guy and put her lips next to his ear. "It wasn't a dream. I just wanted them to stop hurting you."
She felt him lift his head slightly to look up at her, and when he spoke, his voice was full of naked astonishment. "You lied to them … for me?"
"Yes!" she replied softly, turning the knife in her fingers and trying to saw through the rope. Holding it at the right angle was more difficult than she'd thought.
Sir Guy laid his head down again. "Then Luke is right. You haven't seen the real Gisborne."
"Yes, I have," Quenilda protested. She accidentally jabbed the knife into her wrist as she spoke, and the words came out more loudly than she'd intended. Lowering her voice again, she said, "And even if I haven't, I just can't stand seeing men torment somebody who is already in such pain."
"What makes you think I'm in pain?" Sir Guy asked, trying to inject skepticism into his voice. He wasn't completely successful.
"I've heard you," Quenilda replied, shifting the knife slightly and trying again. "All the time you were ill, you were calling out for her. Lady Marian. I know you didn't mean to kill her, I know it was an accident. And I know how much you regret it because I heard you crying."
"I dreamed of her," Sir Guy said quietly. "So often … I thought she loved me. And then she told me that she loved Robin Hood. I only wanted to stop her from saying that—"
His voice broke. Quenilda stopped fumbling with the knife and lifted her head to look at him, sensing more than seeing the anguish he felt. Her first instinct was to reach out and place a hand on his shoulder, but she couldn't, so she settled for trying to shift closer. The wagon hit an uneven patch of road just then, and the resulting lurch sent her sprawling onto Sir Guy's side.
"It's all right," she said. She expected him to turn away, but he didn't stir, which was encouraging. "It's all right," she whispered again, then rolled away from him.
Spurred on by the knowledge that she only had a short time until the poppy juice would take effect, Quenilda immediately resumed trying to cut the rope around her wrists. Eventually, her efforts were crowned with success, and her hands fell free. Quenilda lifted her head and kept the driver in sight as she slipped the knife back into her belt. Careful not to make any movements or noise that would attract attention, she rose up onto her hands and knees and searched her bag for the small bottle of poppy juice. She set it next to Sir Guy's shoulder, then reached for the keg and eased it carefully onto its side so that she could work the bung free from its hole. At last, she unstoppered the bottle and poured the contents into the ale, shaking it to get out every possible drop. Her eyes were already growing heavy as she used both thumbs to push the bung back into place, then returned the keg to its original position.
Remembering that the dose of emetic in her bag was only enough for one person, Quenilda decided to save it for Sir Guy, but first, she had to get the poppy juice out of her own stomach. Finding an empty patch of wagonbed close to their feet, careful not to soil any of the supplies, she stuck her finger down her throat until she retched, and vomited up everything she'd had for breakfast. The action left her exhausted, however, and she sank down onto the wooden planks, intending to rest for only a minute or two before helping Sir Guy.
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When Quenilda opened her eyes again, the wagon had stopped, and at first, she groggily accepted that it was evening, time for their few minutes of freedom and food. But something was wrong; it was still light outside, and she couldn't hear anything from beyond the wagon except a low, rhythmic sound. It sounded vaguely like snoring, as though somebody were asleep out there – and then she remembered. The poppy juice! It had worked! Triumphantly, Quenilda raised her head, only to have her jubilation replaced instantly with despair. Her wrists were tied behind her back again, and this time, her ankles were tied as well, with her legs bent at the knee. She tried to extend them, and felt a corresponding tug on her arms. She obviously hadn't managed to get the poppy juice out of her stomach fast enough. When the men had gone for the ale, they must have discovered that she'd managed to get loose before falling asleep, and had fettered her in the same way they'd done Sir Guy.
But had they found the knife? Quenilda fumbled at her belt and felt its contour beneath the leather. Getting it out was more problematic, however, now that her range of motion was even more severely restricted. She had to arch her back and pull her legs higher up behind her in order to allow her hands more movement, but eventually, she managed to work the knife out with two fingers. Gripping it firmly, she set about sawing through the rope again. It was easier this time, now that she had some experience, and it didn't take long for her to free herself. Although the wagonbed creaked at some of her more energetic movements, there was still no sound from outside. Nonetheless, as soon as she could sit up, she crawled to the rear of the wagon, ignoring the complaints of her stiff muscles, and peered out.
It was colder than she'd expected, but it had stopped raining at last; the men had put up the awning at the side of the wagon, and it was still wet. By craning her neck, Quenilda could see them curled around the remains of a fire, all deeply asleep and not noticing or caring that they lay in the mud. The feeling of triumph returned, and Quenilda ducked back into the wagon, quickly slicing through the various ropes that held Sir Guy. He remained asleep as well, and though she knew he'd probably wake up before the men did, she couldn't afford to wait that long. Her legs protested as she climbed down from the wagon for a better look.
The two horses that Osbert and Luke had been riding were tethered to nearby trees, but of Sir Guy's horse, and her own with its lady's saddle, there was no sign. Quenilda frowned. It would be difficult to heave Sir Guy out of the wagon and sling him over the back of a horse, but on the other hand, she'd never driven a wagon before, and her inexperience could well be disastrous. At length, she untied one of the free horses and led it around to the back of the wagon, commanding it to stand there. The men might have gotten rid of Sir Guy's horse, but they'd kept his packs in one corner of the wagon, and she hefted them into place behind the saddle, groaning slightly at the weight. His sword had been hidden underneath them the entire time, along with a long dagger that Quenilda wished she'd known about earlier. It would have been much easier to use than her tiny herb knife. After she'd tucked the dagger into her own belt, she hung the sword belt from the pommel, then went back for Sir Guy himself.
The horse was patient and only shifted once as Quenilda dragged Sir Guy up over the end of the wagon and draped him on top of the saddle bags. When Sir Guy finally hung over the sides of the horse as evenly as she could arrange him, Quenilda hitched her skirts up above her knees and settled herself in the saddle. The stirrups were too low for her short legs and she had to take precious time to adjust them. Then, after taking the reins in her left hand, Quenilda reached behind with her right hand to rest it on Sir Guy's back, and clicked her tongue for the horse to walk on.
The men hadn't made their camp very far from the road, and she found it almost immediately. The tracks of the wagon's wheels were still visible in the muddy ground where they'd left the path, and Quenilda turned the horse in the direction from which the tracks had come. It was an hour or two past midday, Quenilda thought, and they should be far away by the time evening came. To make certain of that, Quenilda urged the horse into a trot, keeping a grip on Sir Guy's cloak in case he should start to slide off.
Every so often, Quenilda let the horse slow to a walk, so that she could look around, see that they weren't being followed, and check up on Sir Guy. She also had to stop once when she came to a crossing. There was no sign post, no border stone, nothing and no one to give her any directions to get out of the forest. Hoping for the best, Quenilda turned to the right. She hadn't gone more than ten or fifteen yards, however, when she heard the sound of gallopping horses from the road she'd just left. Worried that the men had already woken up and were in pursuit, Quenilda turned her horse into the woodland and urged it diagonally away from all the paths. The oak and birch trees had already lost their leaves, but the sheer number of their trunks might be enough to hide her. As the riders thundered past, continuing straight ahead, Quenilda watched, and was pleased to see that they never once faltered or gave any other sign that they'd noticed her.
After waiting a few minutes longer than it took for the sound of hooves to disappear completely, Quenilda guided her horse back to the road and resumed trotting. One of the horses that had gone by had been white, very different from the darker horses that Osbert, Luke and Hugh had been using. The men were probably still sleeping; surely Sir Guy would awaken long before they did, and they'd still have plenty of time to get far away.
Quenilda's plans came to an abrupt end, however, when two men stepped out from behind bushes onto the road ahead, bows drawn and arrows pointed directly at her. She pulled up sharply, her heart hammering in her chest and her mouth suddenly dry.
"This," one of the men announced, "is an ambush."
"Just hand over any money or jewelry you've got, and we'll let you go peacefully on your way," the second man said. He was no longer looking at her face, and when she followed his gaze, Quenilda realized he was staring at her bare leg where her skirt no longer covered it. She flushed with embarrassment, but couldn't pull her dress down without getting off the horse.
"I haven't got any money or jewelry," Quenilda said in an attempt to distract him. "Please, just let us go."
Hearing the "us," the man finally became aware of Sir Guy. "Who's that, and what's wrong with him?"
"He's my husband." It was becoming much easier for Quenilda to lie, which worried her conscience. "Well, my betrothed." That was closer to the truth. "He's asleep."
"Asleep? He must be more than just asleep. What is he, drunk? And what have you got in those saddle bags? Come on, hand them over." The man lowered his bow and arrow, then heaved Sir Guy from the horse.
"No!" Quenilda protested. "Leave him alone!" She swung her leg forwards over the saddle and jumped down, rushing over as the man dragged the unconscious Sir Guy to the side of the road and let him drop. Still holding his bow and arrow, the first man moved closer, prepared to fire if Quenilda made any threatening moves. Holding her hands away from her body in a submissive gesture, she knelt down next to Sir Guy.
"If you haven't got any money, what's all this, then?" the second man asked. More interested in the saddlebags than in Sir Guy, he'd gone back to the horse to check them; now he held a small sack of coins in each hand.
"It's his, not mine," Quenilda told him, then made a quick decision. "But if you'll just leave us enough to get back to Throxenby, you can take the rest. Please."
"Throxenby?" the first man asked. The second man shot her a suspicious look. "Hang on, what's your name?"
Quenilda was starting to suspect that one of the men was Robin Hood himself, but at least neither of them had recognized Sir Guy yet. Guardedly, she said, "Please, just take the money and let us go."
"You're her, aren't you?" the first man asked. "The daughter of the Earl of Throxenby."
The second man abruptly shoved the money back into the saddle bags, then surprised them both by saying, "Quenilda. That's your name, isn't it? Lady Quenilda of Throxenby?"
"How did you know?" Quenilda asked, dumbfounded and shivering not only because of the cold.
The second man strode back over to where she knelt. "If you're Lady Quenilda," he said, "then that's –"
"Gisborne," the first man finished for him. They both stared down at Sir Guy, and Quenilda felt her heart sink.
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Hearing his name, Guy lay still, kept his eyes shut, and listened. It was Quenilda speaking, and her next words made his heart sink.
"You're Robin Hood," she said. There was a long silence, and then she asked, "Are you going to kill him now, while he's asleep and can't defend himself?"
Guy waited for the outlaw to say something cocky, but the next person who spoke wasn't Hood.
"What's wrong with him, why doesn't he wake up?"
Guy recognized the voice instantly: Allan a Dale, or rather, Allan the Traitor. He'd been a member of Hood's gang, until Hood had caught him selling information to Guy and had kicked him out. Naturally, he'd come crawling on his belly to Guy for help. Generally speaking, Guy had liked him, but he'd never trusted the man, and he hadn't been too surprised when Allan had turned tail again and gone back to Hood.
"He's been drugged with poppy juice," Quenilda explained.
"By you?" Guy knew that voice, too; it was Much, Hood's manservant.
"No, not by me! By the men who attacked him and wanted to bring him to you for the reward," Quenilda replied sharply.
"Reward?" Allan asked. "I don't remember any reward."
Trust Allan to pay attention to anything that might involve money, Guy thought.
"That man, that messenger," Much said. "He mentioned some kind of reward. I had no idea what he was talking about."
"Does that mean the rumours aren't true?" Quenilda asked. "You're not going to give fifty pounds to the man who brings you Sir Guy of Gisborne so you can kill him?"
Allan sounded exasperated. "No, of course it's not true! How do rumours like these get started, anyway? If everything in the rumours were true, we'd be able to fly!"
"We'd never be hungry," Much added.
"Or cold," Allan went on. "And we'd have women throwing themselves at us all the time."
Guy smiled inwardly at the likelihood of that.
"We'd never get hurt," Much said, and for some reason, the simple sentence stopped the litany of complaints cold. There was an awkward pause, and then Allan said, "Yeah, we'd better get back to camp and see how Robin's doing."
"You're not Robin Hood?" Quenilda asked sharply, and Guy heard Allan's amused snort.
"Nah," he said, "I'm Allan, and this is Much. Come on, Much, help me get Guy onto the horse again."
Guy waited, and as soon as they'd heaved him upright, he burst into action, wrenching his arms free, and hitting and kicking. He fought as well as he could, but it was painfully obvious that he was still affected by the poppy juice, along with having been tied up for so long in the cold wagon. His balance was off, and his movements were neither quick nor accurate. The short fight ended when Much caught him by one arm and the back of his neck, and rammed his forehead into a nearby tree. Seeing stars, Guy dropped to his knees, and it was, ironically, only Much that kept him from falling face down, by holding onto his arms while Allan tied them securely together behind his back.
Guy wobbled as Allan and Much pulled him to his feet again, and automatically tested the cord around his wrists. It was strong and unyielding, and that aggravated Guy. He was so tired of being trussed up and unable to move! As Allan went over to her, Quenilda extended her hands in submission, obviously expecting to be tied up as well. She looked both frightened and noble at the same time, something that obviously didn't escape Allan.
"You gonna try to run away?" Allan asked her. "'Cos it's gonna get awfully dark and cold in this forest soon, and you'd probably get lost and freeze to death before you found your way out."
"I won't try to run away," Quenilda told him.
"You gonna attack me when my back is turned?" Allan went on, and Quenilda gave Guy a quick look, then shook her head. "No."
"Then just give me that dagger and I won't tie you up," Allan said.
Quenilda looked down at her waist as though she didn't know what he meant, then removed Guy's dagger from her belt and handed it over. Guy wondered vaguely where she'd got it, then realized it must have come from the same place as the horse, his saddle packs, and the sword that was hanging over the pommel. She'd not only managed to escape Osbert and his men, she'd also retrieved everything of value that Guy'd had on him when he'd ridden away from Throxenby. She'd be the right woman to have for a wife, he caught himself thinking, then stopped, reminding himself again that he'd already made his choice not to marry. And anyway, he'd probably be dead soon.
"May I walk beside Sir Guy in case he needs to lean on me?" Quenilda asked, and Guy felt his heart leap with hope for one short moment. If she'd managed to escape once and take him with her, maybe she could manage it again. But the outlaws were too canny, even for a girl who both looked and sounded harmless, and Much immediately said, "No."
"You can walk beside me," Allan suggested jokingly. "In fact, you'll have to."
"The location of our camp is secret," Much explained, glaring hard at Guy. "We're going to blindfold both of you and lead you there."
"You don't need to blindfold me," Quenilda protested. "I've never been here before, I wouldn't know my way around coming or going."
"Yeah, well, it's not personal, we're just not taking any chances," Allan said, and Much added, "Especially not with Gisborne."
Guy sneered in his direction. "What does it matter if you're going to kill me anyway?"
"Because Robin said we don't bring anybody to the camp without blindfolding them, no matter who they are," Much said.
"Even the King?" Guy taunted him as Much pulled a dirty cloth from around his neck and tied it over Guy's eyes.
"Yes, even the King," Much replied haughtily and then, less certainly, he added, "Well, maybe not him."
Guy expected him to put a rope around his neck and lead him like a cow, in the same way that Osbert and his men had done, but Much settled for slipping his arm into Guy's and walking by his side. His proximity made Guy acutely aware that he couldn't even try to pick at the cord around his wrists without Much noticing his movements. After some to-ing and fro-ing, which turned out to be Much taking the reins of the horse in his other hand, they set out for the camp.
Part 9
By the time they arrived in Sherwood Forest, Quenilda's life had been reduced to short bursts of wakefulness twice a day. She and Sir Guy were allowed out of the wagon each morning and evening to attend to their needs, have an inadequate meal of bad ale and heavy, dark bread, and speak a few sentences of conversation with their captors before being forced to swallow yet another dose of poppy juice. Although Quenilda shivered constantly in the cold and damp, she was determined not to let the circumstances overwhelm her.
By trying to make polite conversation during the meals, Quenilda had discovered that both Hugh and Luke were related to Osbert. Hugh was Osbert's brother, and Luke seemed to be a nephew, but was not Hugh's son. Luke had also lived in or near Nottingham for a time, and had firsthand knowledge of Robin Hood, and also Sir Guy, whom he blamed for the death of both parents and the fact that his older brother was now in the Holy Land, probably forever. Hugh spoke the least, and was also the least violent of the three, keeping Luke and Osbert from beating Sir Guy too badly or too often.
More importantly, however, Quenilda had woken up slightly earlier than usual one afternoon to find that Luke was in the back of the wagon with them, refilling the skin of ale from a small keg. She'd watched him and daydreamed lazily of pouring all their poppy juice into that keg, so that they'd be the ones to fall asleep, and she could escape with Sir Guy. The idea didn't let her go, and when she was fully awake, she began to actively look for ways to implement it. Although she had her own tiny supply of poppy juice in her emergency bag, which still hung around her neck and shoulder, she couldn't find a way to prevent the men from drugging them first, so that any advantage they'd have from the sleeping men would be cancelled out.
That day, she fell asleep without solving the problem, but the next morning, listening to Osbert hawk and spit, Quenilda was reminded of vomiting. If she could just expel the poppy juice from her stomach before it took effect, she might have a chance to stay awake. Did she still have that mixture in her bag that would induce vomiting, or would she have to put her finger down her throat? And how could she do either if her hands were still tied behind her back? She sighed; by the time she'd be able to implement her plan, they'd be in Robin Hood's clutches already!
In the night, Quenilda had snuggled up to Sir Guy for warmth and comfort; now she felt him shift slightly. She moved so that her lips were closer to his ear and whispered, "Sir Guy? Are you awake?"
He didn't answer for a long moment, and she started to believe he was still asleep, but then he sighed and whispered back, "Yeah."
"I've got a plan, but I need some help. Could you try to untie my hands?"
Just then, however, the wagon shifted as Osbert climbed up onto the back and came in through the opening. He grabbed Quenilda first, wrestling her out of the wagon and into Luke's waiting arms. For all his cruelty to Sir Guy, Luke was quite gentle with Quenilda, and sometimes even smiled at her. Now, because it was still raining, he took her under the awning before starting to untie her.
"We're coming up on Sherwood Forest now," Luke said as he picked at the knots around her wrists. "It'll all be over soon."
"What are you going to do with me once it's all over?" Quenilda asked. She'd put the same question to Osbert the day before, but had only received a disdainful grunt for an answer.
"Leave you with Robin Hood, I guess," Luke said. "He'll probably find a way to get you home, or at least send a message to your family. But don't worry, he won't hurt you."
"Even though I came to help Sir Guy?" she asked.
Luke finished with the rope, then came around to stand in front of her. "I met Robin a few times, and my brother lived with him in the forest, and told me a lot about him. He's a good man. He'll understand if you haven't seen the real Gisborne, if you've been taken in by his attempt to act noble and kill the dragon and all that. I'll put in a good word for you, tell him how you try to help everybody with your herbs and your healing, no matter who they are or what they've done. Robin'll make sure you get back safe and sound."
"Thank you," Quenilda said sincerely, even as part of her mind was thinking, but I have seen the real Gisborne! I've seen his pain for what he's done! He's not the monster that everybody thinks he is!
But now was not the time to defend Sir Guy with words; now was the time to concentrate on her escape plan while she was still awake. After tying her wrists loosely to each other, Luke put the noose of the other rope around her neck and let her walk behind a bush. Quenilda immediately took the opportunity to open her bag to see if she still had the emetic. She did, though the dose was only enough for one person. Returning it to the bag, she also found something else at the very bottom – a small knife with a very sharp blade that she used for slicing herbs and roots. Why hadn't she looked before? Allowing herself a short, triumphant grin, she slipped the knife into the side of her belt, as far around to the back as she could get it with her hands connected. When she'd made sure that it was hidden horizontally and not peeking out at top or bottom, she bit down her jubilation and returned to the camp.
Hugh handed her a chunk of dark bread and she slowly chewed off a piece, watching as the men brought Sir Guy out of the wagon. They'd already hobbled his ankles as though expecting him to try and run, but far from attempting to escape the minute his foot hit the ground, Sir Guy struggled instead to even stand, let alone walk on his stiff, cramped legs. Osbert kicked him once in the side of the leg, and he stumbled, falling to his knees in the mud. Keeping his head down, looking beaten in more ways than one, Sir Guy got slowly to his feet, but at the last moment, he pretended to fall against Osbert, and gave him a shove that sent the other man staggering. Osbert shoved back, then pummeled Sir Guy with his fists.
Watching Sir Guy unable to defend himself from the blows, Quenilda felt something give inside of her. Marching over to Osbert, she demanded, "Why do you torment him so? He is not the dragon who ate your daughter!"
"Because he came too late," Osbert grunted, but he stopped. Not meeting Quenilda's eyes, he reached for the rope with the noose in it, and placed it around Sir Guy's neck, then added, "Weeks too late."
"He didn't even know that there was a dragon!" Quenilda protested. "Why do you not torment me instead?"
Osbert finally looked at her, utterly baffled at her question, and she went on, "For not choosing the dragon's lot that week instead of Matilda? One reason is as good or as bad as another if you're looking to make others suffer simply because you yourself are hurting."
"Shut your mouth!" Osbert snarled. "I wasn't planning to hit you, but I might just start now!"
"If you—" Quenilda started, and Osbert actually lifted his hand as he stepped towards her. She flinched back instinctively, and when he relented, she added shakily, "Osbert, please. If you keep beating Sir Guy, you might well kill him before you even get to Robin Hood, and then what will your reward be?"
"Is that one of your dreams?" Osbert sneered.
"Yes!" Quenilda announced, and hoped through sheer force to disguise the fact that she was not telling the truth. It must have worked, because Osbert looked back uncertainly at Sir Guy, then returned to his work of re-tying the man's bonds, this time without violence. Glancing over at her, Sir Guy lifted his eyebrows in silent query, and it took all of Quenilda's self-control not to look away.
When they had resumed their journey and the men had put them back in the wagon, Sir Guy murmured, "You shouldn't have told them about your dream, you should have just let them carry on."
"And let them kill you?" Quenilda demanded, wrestling herself from her stomach onto her left side, then reaching into her belt for the tiny knife.
Sighing in the same unenthusiastic way as Humphrey and Godfrey, Sir Guy replied, "Better them than Hood. I wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction."
Gripping the knife in her hand, Quenilda pushed herself a little closer to Sir Guy and put her lips next to his ear. "It wasn't a dream. I just wanted them to stop hurting you."
She felt him lift his head slightly to look up at her, and when he spoke, his voice was full of naked astonishment. "You lied to them … for me?"
"Yes!" she replied softly, turning the knife in her fingers and trying to saw through the rope. Holding it at the right angle was more difficult than she'd thought.
Sir Guy laid his head down again. "Then Luke is right. You haven't seen the real Gisborne."
"Yes, I have," Quenilda protested. She accidentally jabbed the knife into her wrist as she spoke, and the words came out more loudly than she'd intended. Lowering her voice again, she said, "And even if I haven't, I just can't stand seeing men torment somebody who is already in such pain."
"What makes you think I'm in pain?" Sir Guy asked, trying to inject skepticism into his voice. He wasn't completely successful.
"I've heard you," Quenilda replied, shifting the knife slightly and trying again. "All the time you were ill, you were calling out for her. Lady Marian. I know you didn't mean to kill her, I know it was an accident. And I know how much you regret it because I heard you crying."
"I dreamed of her," Sir Guy said quietly. "So often … I thought she loved me. And then she told me that she loved Robin Hood. I only wanted to stop her from saying that—"
His voice broke. Quenilda stopped fumbling with the knife and lifted her head to look at him, sensing more than seeing the anguish he felt. Her first instinct was to reach out and place a hand on his shoulder, but she couldn't, so she settled for trying to shift closer. The wagon hit an uneven patch of road just then, and the resulting lurch sent her sprawling onto Sir Guy's side.
"It's all right," she said. She expected him to turn away, but he didn't stir, which was encouraging. "It's all right," she whispered again, then rolled away from him.
Spurred on by the knowledge that she only had a short time until the poppy juice would take effect, Quenilda immediately resumed trying to cut the rope around her wrists. Eventually, her efforts were crowned with success, and her hands fell free. Quenilda lifted her head and kept the driver in sight as she slipped the knife back into her belt. Careful not to make any movements or noise that would attract attention, she rose up onto her hands and knees and searched her bag for the small bottle of poppy juice. She set it next to Sir Guy's shoulder, then reached for the keg and eased it carefully onto its side so that she could work the bung free from its hole. At last, she unstoppered the bottle and poured the contents into the ale, shaking it to get out every possible drop. Her eyes were already growing heavy as she used both thumbs to push the bung back into place, then returned the keg to its original position.
Remembering that the dose of emetic in her bag was only enough for one person, Quenilda decided to save it for Sir Guy, but first, she had to get the poppy juice out of her own stomach. Finding an empty patch of wagonbed close to their feet, careful not to soil any of the supplies, she stuck her finger down her throat until she retched, and vomited up everything she'd had for breakfast. The action left her exhausted, however, and she sank down onto the wooden planks, intending to rest for only a minute or two before helping Sir Guy.
+++++
When Quenilda opened her eyes again, the wagon had stopped, and at first, she groggily accepted that it was evening, time for their few minutes of freedom and food. But something was wrong; it was still light outside, and she couldn't hear anything from beyond the wagon except a low, rhythmic sound. It sounded vaguely like snoring, as though somebody were asleep out there – and then she remembered. The poppy juice! It had worked! Triumphantly, Quenilda raised her head, only to have her jubilation replaced instantly with despair. Her wrists were tied behind her back again, and this time, her ankles were tied as well, with her legs bent at the knee. She tried to extend them, and felt a corresponding tug on her arms. She obviously hadn't managed to get the poppy juice out of her stomach fast enough. When the men had gone for the ale, they must have discovered that she'd managed to get loose before falling asleep, and had fettered her in the same way they'd done Sir Guy.
But had they found the knife? Quenilda fumbled at her belt and felt its contour beneath the leather. Getting it out was more problematic, however, now that her range of motion was even more severely restricted. She had to arch her back and pull her legs higher up behind her in order to allow her hands more movement, but eventually, she managed to work the knife out with two fingers. Gripping it firmly, she set about sawing through the rope again. It was easier this time, now that she had some experience, and it didn't take long for her to free herself. Although the wagonbed creaked at some of her more energetic movements, there was still no sound from outside. Nonetheless, as soon as she could sit up, she crawled to the rear of the wagon, ignoring the complaints of her stiff muscles, and peered out.
It was colder than she'd expected, but it had stopped raining at last; the men had put up the awning at the side of the wagon, and it was still wet. By craning her neck, Quenilda could see them curled around the remains of a fire, all deeply asleep and not noticing or caring that they lay in the mud. The feeling of triumph returned, and Quenilda ducked back into the wagon, quickly slicing through the various ropes that held Sir Guy. He remained asleep as well, and though she knew he'd probably wake up before the men did, she couldn't afford to wait that long. Her legs protested as she climbed down from the wagon for a better look.
The two horses that Osbert and Luke had been riding were tethered to nearby trees, but of Sir Guy's horse, and her own with its lady's saddle, there was no sign. Quenilda frowned. It would be difficult to heave Sir Guy out of the wagon and sling him over the back of a horse, but on the other hand, she'd never driven a wagon before, and her inexperience could well be disastrous. At length, she untied one of the free horses and led it around to the back of the wagon, commanding it to stand there. The men might have gotten rid of Sir Guy's horse, but they'd kept his packs in one corner of the wagon, and she hefted them into place behind the saddle, groaning slightly at the weight. His sword had been hidden underneath them the entire time, along with a long dagger that Quenilda wished she'd known about earlier. It would have been much easier to use than her tiny herb knife. After she'd tucked the dagger into her own belt, she hung the sword belt from the pommel, then went back for Sir Guy himself.
The horse was patient and only shifted once as Quenilda dragged Sir Guy up over the end of the wagon and draped him on top of the saddle bags. When Sir Guy finally hung over the sides of the horse as evenly as she could arrange him, Quenilda hitched her skirts up above her knees and settled herself in the saddle. The stirrups were too low for her short legs and she had to take precious time to adjust them. Then, after taking the reins in her left hand, Quenilda reached behind with her right hand to rest it on Sir Guy's back, and clicked her tongue for the horse to walk on.
The men hadn't made their camp very far from the road, and she found it almost immediately. The tracks of the wagon's wheels were still visible in the muddy ground where they'd left the path, and Quenilda turned the horse in the direction from which the tracks had come. It was an hour or two past midday, Quenilda thought, and they should be far away by the time evening came. To make certain of that, Quenilda urged the horse into a trot, keeping a grip on Sir Guy's cloak in case he should start to slide off.
Every so often, Quenilda let the horse slow to a walk, so that she could look around, see that they weren't being followed, and check up on Sir Guy. She also had to stop once when she came to a crossing. There was no sign post, no border stone, nothing and no one to give her any directions to get out of the forest. Hoping for the best, Quenilda turned to the right. She hadn't gone more than ten or fifteen yards, however, when she heard the sound of gallopping horses from the road she'd just left. Worried that the men had already woken up and were in pursuit, Quenilda turned her horse into the woodland and urged it diagonally away from all the paths. The oak and birch trees had already lost their leaves, but the sheer number of their trunks might be enough to hide her. As the riders thundered past, continuing straight ahead, Quenilda watched, and was pleased to see that they never once faltered or gave any other sign that they'd noticed her.
After waiting a few minutes longer than it took for the sound of hooves to disappear completely, Quenilda guided her horse back to the road and resumed trotting. One of the horses that had gone by had been white, very different from the darker horses that Osbert, Luke and Hugh had been using. The men were probably still sleeping; surely Sir Guy would awaken long before they did, and they'd still have plenty of time to get far away.
Quenilda's plans came to an abrupt end, however, when two men stepped out from behind bushes onto the road ahead, bows drawn and arrows pointed directly at her. She pulled up sharply, her heart hammering in her chest and her mouth suddenly dry.
"This," one of the men announced, "is an ambush."
"Just hand over any money or jewelry you've got, and we'll let you go peacefully on your way," the second man said. He was no longer looking at her face, and when she followed his gaze, Quenilda realized he was staring at her bare leg where her skirt no longer covered it. She flushed with embarrassment, but couldn't pull her dress down without getting off the horse.
"I haven't got any money or jewelry," Quenilda said in an attempt to distract him. "Please, just let us go."
Hearing the "us," the man finally became aware of Sir Guy. "Who's that, and what's wrong with him?"
"He's my husband." It was becoming much easier for Quenilda to lie, which worried her conscience. "Well, my betrothed." That was closer to the truth. "He's asleep."
"Asleep? He must be more than just asleep. What is he, drunk? And what have you got in those saddle bags? Come on, hand them over." The man lowered his bow and arrow, then heaved Sir Guy from the horse.
"No!" Quenilda protested. "Leave him alone!" She swung her leg forwards over the saddle and jumped down, rushing over as the man dragged the unconscious Sir Guy to the side of the road and let him drop. Still holding his bow and arrow, the first man moved closer, prepared to fire if Quenilda made any threatening moves. Holding her hands away from her body in a submissive gesture, she knelt down next to Sir Guy.
"If you haven't got any money, what's all this, then?" the second man asked. More interested in the saddlebags than in Sir Guy, he'd gone back to the horse to check them; now he held a small sack of coins in each hand.
"It's his, not mine," Quenilda told him, then made a quick decision. "But if you'll just leave us enough to get back to Throxenby, you can take the rest. Please."
"Throxenby?" the first man asked. The second man shot her a suspicious look. "Hang on, what's your name?"
Quenilda was starting to suspect that one of the men was Robin Hood himself, but at least neither of them had recognized Sir Guy yet. Guardedly, she said, "Please, just take the money and let us go."
"You're her, aren't you?" the first man asked. "The daughter of the Earl of Throxenby."
The second man abruptly shoved the money back into the saddle bags, then surprised them both by saying, "Quenilda. That's your name, isn't it? Lady Quenilda of Throxenby?"
"How did you know?" Quenilda asked, dumbfounded and shivering not only because of the cold.
The second man strode back over to where she knelt. "If you're Lady Quenilda," he said, "then that's –"
"Gisborne," the first man finished for him. They both stared down at Sir Guy, and Quenilda felt her heart sink.
+++++
Hearing his name, Guy lay still, kept his eyes shut, and listened. It was Quenilda speaking, and her next words made his heart sink.
"You're Robin Hood," she said. There was a long silence, and then she asked, "Are you going to kill him now, while he's asleep and can't defend himself?"
Guy waited for the outlaw to say something cocky, but the next person who spoke wasn't Hood.
"What's wrong with him, why doesn't he wake up?"
Guy recognized the voice instantly: Allan a Dale, or rather, Allan the Traitor. He'd been a member of Hood's gang, until Hood had caught him selling information to Guy and had kicked him out. Naturally, he'd come crawling on his belly to Guy for help. Generally speaking, Guy had liked him, but he'd never trusted the man, and he hadn't been too surprised when Allan had turned tail again and gone back to Hood.
"He's been drugged with poppy juice," Quenilda explained.
"By you?" Guy knew that voice, too; it was Much, Hood's manservant.
"No, not by me! By the men who attacked him and wanted to bring him to you for the reward," Quenilda replied sharply.
"Reward?" Allan asked. "I don't remember any reward."
Trust Allan to pay attention to anything that might involve money, Guy thought.
"That man, that messenger," Much said. "He mentioned some kind of reward. I had no idea what he was talking about."
"Does that mean the rumours aren't true?" Quenilda asked. "You're not going to give fifty pounds to the man who brings you Sir Guy of Gisborne so you can kill him?"
Allan sounded exasperated. "No, of course it's not true! How do rumours like these get started, anyway? If everything in the rumours were true, we'd be able to fly!"
"We'd never be hungry," Much added.
"Or cold," Allan went on. "And we'd have women throwing themselves at us all the time."
Guy smiled inwardly at the likelihood of that.
"We'd never get hurt," Much said, and for some reason, the simple sentence stopped the litany of complaints cold. There was an awkward pause, and then Allan said, "Yeah, we'd better get back to camp and see how Robin's doing."
"You're not Robin Hood?" Quenilda asked sharply, and Guy heard Allan's amused snort.
"Nah," he said, "I'm Allan, and this is Much. Come on, Much, help me get Guy onto the horse again."
Guy waited, and as soon as they'd heaved him upright, he burst into action, wrenching his arms free, and hitting and kicking. He fought as well as he could, but it was painfully obvious that he was still affected by the poppy juice, along with having been tied up for so long in the cold wagon. His balance was off, and his movements were neither quick nor accurate. The short fight ended when Much caught him by one arm and the back of his neck, and rammed his forehead into a nearby tree. Seeing stars, Guy dropped to his knees, and it was, ironically, only Much that kept him from falling face down, by holding onto his arms while Allan tied them securely together behind his back.
Guy wobbled as Allan and Much pulled him to his feet again, and automatically tested the cord around his wrists. It was strong and unyielding, and that aggravated Guy. He was so tired of being trussed up and unable to move! As Allan went over to her, Quenilda extended her hands in submission, obviously expecting to be tied up as well. She looked both frightened and noble at the same time, something that obviously didn't escape Allan.
"You gonna try to run away?" Allan asked her. "'Cos it's gonna get awfully dark and cold in this forest soon, and you'd probably get lost and freeze to death before you found your way out."
"I won't try to run away," Quenilda told him.
"You gonna attack me when my back is turned?" Allan went on, and Quenilda gave Guy a quick look, then shook her head. "No."
"Then just give me that dagger and I won't tie you up," Allan said.
Quenilda looked down at her waist as though she didn't know what he meant, then removed Guy's dagger from her belt and handed it over. Guy wondered vaguely where she'd got it, then realized it must have come from the same place as the horse, his saddle packs, and the sword that was hanging over the pommel. She'd not only managed to escape Osbert and his men, she'd also retrieved everything of value that Guy'd had on him when he'd ridden away from Throxenby. She'd be the right woman to have for a wife, he caught himself thinking, then stopped, reminding himself again that he'd already made his choice not to marry. And anyway, he'd probably be dead soon.
"May I walk beside Sir Guy in case he needs to lean on me?" Quenilda asked, and Guy felt his heart leap with hope for one short moment. If she'd managed to escape once and take him with her, maybe she could manage it again. But the outlaws were too canny, even for a girl who both looked and sounded harmless, and Much immediately said, "No."
"You can walk beside me," Allan suggested jokingly. "In fact, you'll have to."
"The location of our camp is secret," Much explained, glaring hard at Guy. "We're going to blindfold both of you and lead you there."
"You don't need to blindfold me," Quenilda protested. "I've never been here before, I wouldn't know my way around coming or going."
"Yeah, well, it's not personal, we're just not taking any chances," Allan said, and Much added, "Especially not with Gisborne."
Guy sneered in his direction. "What does it matter if you're going to kill me anyway?"
"Because Robin said we don't bring anybody to the camp without blindfolding them, no matter who they are," Much said.
"Even the King?" Guy taunted him as Much pulled a dirty cloth from around his neck and tied it over Guy's eyes.
"Yes, even the King," Much replied haughtily and then, less certainly, he added, "Well, maybe not him."
Guy expected him to put a rope around his neck and lead him like a cow, in the same way that Osbert and his men had done, but Much settled for slipping his arm into Guy's and walking by his side. His proximity made Guy acutely aware that he couldn't even try to pick at the cord around his wrists without Much noticing his movements. After some to-ing and fro-ing, which turned out to be Much taking the reins of the horse in his other hand, they set out for the camp.
Part 9