The Dragon of Throxenby, Part 5
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The next morning, Guy was just getting dressed when Humphrey – or perhaps it was Godfrey, he couldn't tell them apart – came into his chamber and announced, "The Earl wants to see you downstairs, m'lord."
"'M coming," Guy replied thickly, and watched the man bow before leaving again. Guy sighed. He was just hung over enough to be miserable, and, he realized belatedly, too slow to ask the servant to see if Quenilda had anything to make the pain go away. Well, perhaps she'd be downstairs at breakfast, and he could ask her himself. He finished with his boots and stood up, then made his way down the stairs to the great hall.
But most of the tables had already been cleared away, and Quenilda was nowhere in sight. Guy was relieved that he wouldn't have to see the developing bruise on her face and know that he had caused it. Instead, the Earl was seated alone at the high table, with only a few servants attending him. There was also a man who was not dressed like a servant, holding a cloth wrapped bundle in both hands as carefully as though it were an infant.
"Good morning, Sir Guy," the Earl said, with no hint of reproach in his voice despite the late hour.
"Good morning, my lord," Guy replied, bowing his head.
"You lost your sword in my service," the Earl said. "My daughter told me how the dragon's blood ate through the blade like rust."
"Yes, my lord," Guy agreed. At the mention of swords, he looked over to the bundle that the man held, and judged it to be the right size and shape. He was not disappointed. The Earl gave the man a nod, and the man unfolded the cloth to reveal a new sword, much finer than his old one, and yet not too decorative to be used.
"I've commissioned you a new one," the Earl said, "as a token of my thanks. Take it with my gratitude."
Guy took the sword and swung it experimentally. It was perfectly balanced and beautiful, a work of art and an effective weapon both at the same time, and he couldn't keep a certain amount of admiration and excitement out of his voice. "My lord!"
Then he remembered that he wasn't going to be marrying either of the Earl's daughters, not that Quenilda would ever want to marry him now that he'd hit her, and all the joy drained out of him. Lowering the sword, Guy approached the high table. "I'm sorry, my lord, I cannot accept this."
"Perhaps I did not express myself well," the Earl said. "I meant to say that this is a token of my thanks for saving all the maids in Throxenby. It has nothing to do with Isolda or Quenilda, Sir Guy, nothing at all."
Guy hesitated, searching the Earl's face for any sign of anything that might imply the opposite, but when he found nothing of the sort, he felt his delight in the weapon return. "My lord, thank you! Thank you!"
He turned to the man, feeling a smile work its way across his face for the first time in months. "It's very fine – almost fit for a king."
The man smiled back in pleasure at the praise. "Thank you, Sir Guy."
"A knight must have a sword," the Earl said. "Dragons are not the only threats."
Guy swung the sword again, then lunged with it in the direction of the door, just as Quenilda stepped through it into the great hall. She stopped in mock alarm, and Guy lowered the sword immediately. "My lady!"
Quenilda curtsied in her father's direction. "My lord." Then she turned back to Guy, and acknowledged him with a smile. "Sir Guy."
Embarrassed by the way she smiled despite the pain that the bruise on her face must cause, Guy bent his head to stuff the sword into the scabbard at his waist, and only belatedly realized he wasn't wearing his sword belt.
"And here's a threat right here," the Earl said. "My own daughter, come to relieve me of my money as though she were Robin Hood himself."
Guy bit down a grimace at the name, but Quenilda merely sounded innocent as she asked, "My lord?"
"It is market day, isn't it?" the Earl demanded. "And no doubt you've run low on some herb or other."
"I was hoping to convince Sir Guy to accompany me to the market, my lord," Quenilda replied, "because a short walk would do him good, not because I have a pressing need for herbs."
"No pressing need? Really?" The Earl leaned back in his chair, looking astounded. "Well, that's a first."
"But in case of an emergency, my lord, I could use some more comfrey," Quenilda said. "And mallow. Perhaps some angelica."
The Earl gave a mock groan, then stood up. "I was just about to pay William for the sword. I suppose it won't hurt too much if I should take an extra coin from my pouch. Just in case of an emergency, mind you."
Quenilda smiled with her eyes, though not her lips, and Guy realized that it was a well-worn routine, a game that they played with each other.
The Earl came around the table and counted out several coins to the third man in the hall. To judge by William's reaction, it was a very generous amount, because he couldn't hide his grin even as he bowed and left. When the man had gone, the Earl then pinched two more coins between his thumb and forefinger and held them out in Quenilda's direction. "You're making a poor man of me, my daughter."
"But we must be prepared for anything, my lord," Quenilda replied, transferring the coins to her own pouch with a smile.
"I'd be a poor Earl indeed if I didn't know that," the Earl said. They grinned at each other at last, and the Earl bent forward to kiss Quenilda on the forehead. "Sir Guy, make sure that my daughter buys something nice for herself as well."
"Yes, my lord," Guy replied, groaning inwardly. He had no desire to accompany any woman to any marketplace, especially not to look for herbs, but as mild as the Earl's sentence had been, it was still a command.
Guy, Quenilda, and Eva had barely reached the marketplace, however, when there was an excited cry from behind them. "Lady Quenilda! Sir Guy!"
Guy turned to see a baker's apprentice, holding out two of the pies displayed on a little tray that he wore in front of him, held by a leather strap around his neck. "Sir Guy! You saved my little sister!"
Guy hesitated, wondering if he'd heard correctly. In Nottingham, he was more likely to be accused of killing people, not saving them, and then he remembered the dragon. The teenaged boy extended the pies more fervently. "It's all I can give you, Sir Guy, it's all I've got. But please, take them, as a thank you from my family and me."
"We really couldn't –" Quenilda started to say, but Guy, hungry, leaned forward and took both pies. He bit into one, and the boy beamed at him. "We're so grateful you slew the dragon, Sir Guy! Bless you! Bless you!"
"How old is your sister?" Quenilda asked.
"Just turned twelve, my lady, and as beautiful as Lady Isolda," the boy replied in all seriousness. "May I offer you a pie as well, my lady?"
"Thank you." Quenilda accepted one, took a bite, and smiled. "This is delicious."
She gave Guy a significant look, and though it took Guy a moment to realize what she expected, he finally grunted in agreement. "Mm, good."
"Thank you, my lord, my lady! I baked these myself!" He bowed awkwardly while trying to hold the tray steady, then turned to the nearest bystanders and began trying to sell them with a song he'd obviously made up on the spot. "If from me you buy a pie, you will like it like Sir Guy!"
Catching Guy's scowl, Quenilda and Eva both grinned in obvious delight. "It's easy to make a rhyme for Sir Guy," Quenilda told him.
It rhymes with 'die', Guy thought morosely.
"Ivo said once that the only thing that rhymes with Quenilda is Hilda, my lady," Eva added. "But he has a worse time finding a rhyme for Lady Isolda."
Quenilda smiled even more. Guy didn't have time to answer, though, because someone else was tugging at his sleeve to get his attention, and from then on, he was positively showered with other gifts, coins, and verbal thank yous. Even the herb merchant refused Quenilda's offer of payment by saying that she'd obviously used up a great deal of her supplies on the knight in black leather, and he was willing to replace them at no charge. By the time they were ready made their way back to the castle, with Eva behind them, groaning under the weight of the presents, Guy was starting to enjoy himself. It occurred to him that Hood might feel this same pleasure, with everybody fawning over him in gratitude. Maybe that was why he did it. It was certainly better than having people running in fear, barely tolerating his presence, and making signs against evil behind his back or whenever they thought he wasn't looking.
It wasn't until they were eating dinner that he remembered his assignment, to make sure that Quenilda bought something nice for herself. He spent the rest of the meal waiting for the Earl to accuse him of shirking his duty and humiliate him in front of everybody, especially when Quenilda briefly mentioned the herbs. But the conversation moved briskly from Guy's gifts to the families who had suffered the loss of a daughter or a sister, to the question of where the dragon had come from in the first place, and from there to foreign lands in general, the Holy Land in particular, and, inevitably, the crusade. The Earl never once referred to Guy's lapse, and Guy went to bed feeling both relieved and, strangely, a little guilty.
The next day was Sunday, and Guy could not refuse the Earl's invitation to attend church with them. During the service, he stood at the man's side, feeling awkward and unworthy. He hadn't been in a chapel since the time he'd almost married Lady Marian, but the memory of how she'd left him standing at the altar was less overwhelming than he'd expected. Guy felt worse when he thought of her death, and found himself wishing that somehow, some day, he could be forgiven for that. He imagined Marian as an angel, possessing pure white wings that allowed her to fly and hover in front of him so that she could lean forward, kiss him on the cheek and say, as Quenilda had said, "You really are forgiven."
She'd fly away again, of course, back up to her place in heaven, but Guy thought that the relief that her words would bring would vanquish all the pains of hell forever. It was only later, when they were walking back to the keep, that Guy remembered that he could never be forgiven, and that Marian would never say those words to him, whether in this life or the next.
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After a lunch during which Quenilda noticed Sir Guy getting restless and casting longing looks at the wine, Quenilda decided that a long walk in the the fresh air would be just what he needed. Doing good on the Sabbath was expressly permitted in the Bible, and so she'd got into the habit of taking her grandfather to the healing springs each week, to bathe his eyes in the cold water and help him retain his ability to distinguish between light and dark. During a lull in the conversation, she invited Sir Guy to accompany them. He nodded, not having said much throughout the meal, and stood up silently up from the table when they did.
"I dreamed of Sir Guy this morning," Thurstan said as they strolled, arm in arm, along the road.
"Did it involve Robin Hood?" Quenilda asked, glancing up to where Sir Guy was striding quickly ahead of them.
"No," Thurstan replied. "What was the name of that guard, the one whose daughter was the first to be chosen --?"
"Osbert," Quenilda said quickly, before her grandfather could finish the question.
"Yes, Osbert. I dreamed he attacked Sir Guy."
Quenilda frowned, thinking of all her hard work in nursing Sir Guy back to health after the dragon had bitten him. "Did he kill him?"
"He wanted to," Thurstan mused. "And Sir Guy was angry, but mostly at himself, I think, because part of him still wanted to die, and yet the part of him that wanted to stay alive was getting stronger. But no, I didn't see the end."
"I hope Sir Guy doesn't kill him," Quenilda said. "He's lost a daughter, true, but he's still got his son, and a hope for grandchildren one day."
"Grandchildren are the light of my life," Thurstan said, giving her a smile. "Everybody should have some."
Quenilda lifted her grandfather's hand to her face so that he could feel her own grin. "Even me?"
"Especially you."
"It's hard for me to think about grandchildren when I'm not even married yet," Quenilda said.
"I never thought of babies when I was your age, either," Thurstan said. "Not even when I was playing dragon and maiden with a – well, never mind about that."
Feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment, Quenilda was glad for once that her grandfather could not see, and quickly changed the subject. "I don't think Sir Guy will have grandchildren. I dreamed about him the other day, too. He left Throxenby alone, and was attacked by men who wanted to take him to Robin Hood."
"For the fifty pound reward?" Thurstan asked, and Quenilda made a noise of assent. "Even though they'd be rich enough if they had just robbed him and left him. You should have seen what happened in the marketplace yesterday, grandfather! It seemed that everybody had something to give him in thanks for killing the dragon."
"Perhaps not everybody," Thurstan corrected her, then said suddenly, "Listen!"
Quenilda looked instead. A few paces up the road, Sir Guy was standing warily in front of the very Osbert they had been speaking about, his hand on the hilt of his sword as Osbert bellowed up into his face.
"Why didn't you come earlier, huh? Why didn't you save my daughter?" Osbert was demanding as Quenilda and Thurstan approached.
"Osbert!" Quenilda called out, and both men turned to look at her. Letting go of her grandfather, Quenilda ran ahead to place her hand on the man's arm. "Osbert –"
Now that she was closer, she could smell the drink on him and recognize, even before he shrugged her hand off, that Osbert was in no mood to be comforted.
"And why are you still alive?" Osbert shouted at her. "Why not my Matilda? She was only fourteen!"
"I don't know, Osbert," Quenilda said, genuinely puzzled. "I don't know."
"That lottery was fixed, that's why!" Osbert raged. "The Earl never had any intention of sacrificing his daughters, no, not when he could send ours to the dragon instead!"
"That's not true!" Quenilda protested. She and Isolda had taken their chances in the lottery like anybody else – in fact, they'd always had to be first to reach into the bag to draw one of the wooden markers, and she'd recognized, each time, the fear that her father had tried to hide as they'd done so. Seeing that Osbert was close to tears now, she extended her arms, intending to hug him, but he put out both hands and shoved her violently away. Sir Guy reached for his sword again, and Quenilda cried out, "No!"
Sir Guy looked surprised, but stopped, and Quenilda explained, "He doesn't mean me harm, he is only grieving."
Sir Guy gave Osbert a hard glare, then removed his hand from the hilt of his sword. From behind her, Thurstan said, "Have a care, my granddaughter. Men who are grieving are the most dangerous, because they do not care if they die – in fact, they welcome death."
"I should have died instead of Mathilda," Osbert sobbed. "The Earl should have let me go to the dragon in her place!"
"But you were not a maid!" Quenilda protested, carefully laying one hand on his shoulder.
"How would the dragon have known?" Osbert's anger cut through his sobs. "I cannot tell the difference between a ewe and a ram when the meat is in my stewpot! How would a dragon tell the difference between a maid and a man?"
Sir Guy smirked at this logic, and from behind them, Quenilda heard Thurstan say simply, "It had to be a maid, or the knight in black leather would not have come."
With a wordless cry of rage, Osbert lunged at him and swung his fist. The blow caught Thurstan directly in the face and dropped him to the ground. At first, Quenilda was too shocked to scream; all she could do was watch, unable to move or even speak, as Sir Guy grabbed Osbert from behind and prevented him from throwing himself onto the older man. Twisting the man's arm behind his back, Sir Guy spun him around, then propelled him up the path in the direction of the spring. As soon as they were out of the way, Quenilda flung herself down at Thurstan's side. "Grandfather?"
Blood gushed from Thurstan's nose, flowing down across his mouth and right cheek. Moaning and hissing with pain, he felt cautiously around his face, but when Quenilda reached out to do the same, he bit back any sound and only winced.
"I don't think it's broken," Quenilda finally decided.
"Then help me stand before Sir Guy kills him." Thurstan reached out and caught hold of her arm. For a change, he led her, going so well in the right direction that she only had to correct him twice. They arrived just as Osbert staggered unter Sir Guy's blows and fell into the healing spring. Calling for them to stop, Quenilda let go of her grandfather and ran over to pull the man out of the water before he drowned. He shrugged her off, then crawled out on the other side and remained crouched there, spluttering and gasping.
"You're soaked," Quenilda told him. "After you've apologized to my grandfather, you must go home and get dry or you will catch lung fever."
With a roar, Osbert heaved himself up again and spat in her direction. "Apologize? To the man who said that the dragon would only eat maidens? To the man who said that a knight in black leather would be able to defeat the dragon, but couldn't tell us when? It's his fault that my Mathilda's dead – I won't apologize to him, I'll kill him!"
He rushed at Thurstan again, and Quenilda flung herself protectively in front of her grandfather. Just as he reached her, Osbert stopped in mid-motion, then glanced down in sheer astonishment. Quenilda followed his gaze, and gasped. The blade of a sword was sticking through his jacket, and Quenilda felt a cold shiver as she realized that the sword had come from behind her, through the space between her body and her arm. Osbert staggered backwards and dropped a dagger from his hand that Quenilda hadn't even seen him draw. Coming out of the wound, the tip of the sword was revealed, with less than a finger's breadth of blood at the end, and then the entire blade disappeared back the way it had come. As Osbert fingered the tiny wound, still looking surprised, Quenilda felt a hand grip her shoulder and whirl her around.
"Woman!" Sir Guy shouted at her. He'd sheathed his sword, now he clapped his hands on both of her shoulders and started to shake her violently. "You never get in the way of a man with a sword, you stupid, stupid woman! I could have killed you, Marian, I could have run this right through you –"
Suddenly, Sir Guy pulled her close and planted his mouth on hers, kissing her as violently as he had been shaking her a moment ago. Caught unawares, Quenilda was unable to react at first, but then she tried to free herself with a shove. Sir Guy had already lifted both hands to her head, however, and hung on, his kisses becoming even more urgent. Through them, he murmured, "Marian, no, don't push me away, please –"
He began to stroke her hair, but when his fingers found the beginning of her plait, he stopped. His kisses stopped, too, and he raised his head to look down at her in bewilderment.
"I—I'm not Marian," Quenilda said. It was strange how shaky her voice sounded in her own ears. Sir Guy blinked several times, then let go of her head, his expression so miserable that she automatically added, "I'm sorry."
Sir Guy backed away without speaking, then turned suddenly and all but ran back towards the keep. Quenilda watched him go, her heart thudding in her chest and her mouth throbbing. Eventually, however, splashing sounds caught her attention, and she glanced over to the healing spring. Osbert had retreated to one side of it and was holding up his tunic with one hand while he used the other to cup water and dash it over his wound. On the other side, her grandfather had stuck his entire face into the spring, and as she watched, he lifted it up and let the water run off. There was no blood left on his mouth or chin, and none coming out of his nose, either.
With a rush, Quenilda's powers of both thought and speech returned. "Oh, Grandfather, I'm sorry, I should have helped you!"
"I thought you might be a bit busy," Thurstan replied. "And I'm not so helpless that I can't find the water that's right in front of me."
He sounded almost merry, despite his nose. On the other side of the spring, Osbert got to his feet, and Quenilda reached out. "Osbert, let me stitch that up for you. I'll get you some salve and bandages."
"I don't want your help," Osbert growled, pulling his tunic down. "It's just a scratch, and if there's any stitching to be done, Albreda can do it!"
He stomped away down the south path, in the opposite direction from Throxenby, Albreda's house, and everything else, and leaving Quenilda feeling curiously hurt by his rejection. At her side, Thurstan straightened up and groped for her arm. She took it automatically, and they walked in silence.
No longer distracted, Quenilda found her thoughts returning to the feeling of Sir Guy's lips on hers. Her first kiss, she thought, and felt both sad and angry that it had been such a disappointment. According to both Isolda and her mother, and all the love songs that Ivo had ever sung, kisses were supposed to be very pleasant and make you want more. Instead, she'd had her lips mashed against her teeth like herbs inside a mortar while Sir Guy's hands had held her head so tightly she couldn't pull away. Tears stung her eyes and she suddenly wished she'd had the presence of mind to slap him. Then she remembered how wretched he'd looked when he'd discovered she wasn't Marian, and her anger turned to pain, for him and a little for herself.
Obviously sensing her distress, her grandfather patted her arm and said, "You can't heal everything, Quenilda, no matter how much you might want to."
"I know!" she exclaimed, the words coming out as a sob, and then she flung her arms around her grandfather and buried her face in his tunic. Thurstan held her tightly, made soothing noises, stroked her hair and her back, and finally asked, "Why are you crying, Quenilda?"
"I don't know," she wailed.
"I think you might be crying because you wanted Sir Guy to kiss you," he said. Quenilda raised her face to look up at him, ready to protest, but he went on. "Not the memory of his Lady Marian, but you, Quenilda, the girl he saved from the dragon, the daughter of Earl Alfward."
All the way home, Quenilda considered the theory, eventually coming to the conclusion that her grandfather might just be right. She remained silent, however, not yet willing to admit it out loud.
Part 6
The next morning, Guy was just getting dressed when Humphrey – or perhaps it was Godfrey, he couldn't tell them apart – came into his chamber and announced, "The Earl wants to see you downstairs, m'lord."
"'M coming," Guy replied thickly, and watched the man bow before leaving again. Guy sighed. He was just hung over enough to be miserable, and, he realized belatedly, too slow to ask the servant to see if Quenilda had anything to make the pain go away. Well, perhaps she'd be downstairs at breakfast, and he could ask her himself. He finished with his boots and stood up, then made his way down the stairs to the great hall.
But most of the tables had already been cleared away, and Quenilda was nowhere in sight. Guy was relieved that he wouldn't have to see the developing bruise on her face and know that he had caused it. Instead, the Earl was seated alone at the high table, with only a few servants attending him. There was also a man who was not dressed like a servant, holding a cloth wrapped bundle in both hands as carefully as though it were an infant.
"Good morning, Sir Guy," the Earl said, with no hint of reproach in his voice despite the late hour.
"Good morning, my lord," Guy replied, bowing his head.
"You lost your sword in my service," the Earl said. "My daughter told me how the dragon's blood ate through the blade like rust."
"Yes, my lord," Guy agreed. At the mention of swords, he looked over to the bundle that the man held, and judged it to be the right size and shape. He was not disappointed. The Earl gave the man a nod, and the man unfolded the cloth to reveal a new sword, much finer than his old one, and yet not too decorative to be used.
"I've commissioned you a new one," the Earl said, "as a token of my thanks. Take it with my gratitude."
Guy took the sword and swung it experimentally. It was perfectly balanced and beautiful, a work of art and an effective weapon both at the same time, and he couldn't keep a certain amount of admiration and excitement out of his voice. "My lord!"
Then he remembered that he wasn't going to be marrying either of the Earl's daughters, not that Quenilda would ever want to marry him now that he'd hit her, and all the joy drained out of him. Lowering the sword, Guy approached the high table. "I'm sorry, my lord, I cannot accept this."
"Perhaps I did not express myself well," the Earl said. "I meant to say that this is a token of my thanks for saving all the maids in Throxenby. It has nothing to do with Isolda or Quenilda, Sir Guy, nothing at all."
Guy hesitated, searching the Earl's face for any sign of anything that might imply the opposite, but when he found nothing of the sort, he felt his delight in the weapon return. "My lord, thank you! Thank you!"
He turned to the man, feeling a smile work its way across his face for the first time in months. "It's very fine – almost fit for a king."
The man smiled back in pleasure at the praise. "Thank you, Sir Guy."
"A knight must have a sword," the Earl said. "Dragons are not the only threats."
Guy swung the sword again, then lunged with it in the direction of the door, just as Quenilda stepped through it into the great hall. She stopped in mock alarm, and Guy lowered the sword immediately. "My lady!"
Quenilda curtsied in her father's direction. "My lord." Then she turned back to Guy, and acknowledged him with a smile. "Sir Guy."
Embarrassed by the way she smiled despite the pain that the bruise on her face must cause, Guy bent his head to stuff the sword into the scabbard at his waist, and only belatedly realized he wasn't wearing his sword belt.
"And here's a threat right here," the Earl said. "My own daughter, come to relieve me of my money as though she were Robin Hood himself."
Guy bit down a grimace at the name, but Quenilda merely sounded innocent as she asked, "My lord?"
"It is market day, isn't it?" the Earl demanded. "And no doubt you've run low on some herb or other."
"I was hoping to convince Sir Guy to accompany me to the market, my lord," Quenilda replied, "because a short walk would do him good, not because I have a pressing need for herbs."
"No pressing need? Really?" The Earl leaned back in his chair, looking astounded. "Well, that's a first."
"But in case of an emergency, my lord, I could use some more comfrey," Quenilda said. "And mallow. Perhaps some angelica."
The Earl gave a mock groan, then stood up. "I was just about to pay William for the sword. I suppose it won't hurt too much if I should take an extra coin from my pouch. Just in case of an emergency, mind you."
Quenilda smiled with her eyes, though not her lips, and Guy realized that it was a well-worn routine, a game that they played with each other.
The Earl came around the table and counted out several coins to the third man in the hall. To judge by William's reaction, it was a very generous amount, because he couldn't hide his grin even as he bowed and left. When the man had gone, the Earl then pinched two more coins between his thumb and forefinger and held them out in Quenilda's direction. "You're making a poor man of me, my daughter."
"But we must be prepared for anything, my lord," Quenilda replied, transferring the coins to her own pouch with a smile.
"I'd be a poor Earl indeed if I didn't know that," the Earl said. They grinned at each other at last, and the Earl bent forward to kiss Quenilda on the forehead. "Sir Guy, make sure that my daughter buys something nice for herself as well."
"Yes, my lord," Guy replied, groaning inwardly. He had no desire to accompany any woman to any marketplace, especially not to look for herbs, but as mild as the Earl's sentence had been, it was still a command.
Guy, Quenilda, and Eva had barely reached the marketplace, however, when there was an excited cry from behind them. "Lady Quenilda! Sir Guy!"
Guy turned to see a baker's apprentice, holding out two of the pies displayed on a little tray that he wore in front of him, held by a leather strap around his neck. "Sir Guy! You saved my little sister!"
Guy hesitated, wondering if he'd heard correctly. In Nottingham, he was more likely to be accused of killing people, not saving them, and then he remembered the dragon. The teenaged boy extended the pies more fervently. "It's all I can give you, Sir Guy, it's all I've got. But please, take them, as a thank you from my family and me."
"We really couldn't –" Quenilda started to say, but Guy, hungry, leaned forward and took both pies. He bit into one, and the boy beamed at him. "We're so grateful you slew the dragon, Sir Guy! Bless you! Bless you!"
"How old is your sister?" Quenilda asked.
"Just turned twelve, my lady, and as beautiful as Lady Isolda," the boy replied in all seriousness. "May I offer you a pie as well, my lady?"
"Thank you." Quenilda accepted one, took a bite, and smiled. "This is delicious."
She gave Guy a significant look, and though it took Guy a moment to realize what she expected, he finally grunted in agreement. "Mm, good."
"Thank you, my lord, my lady! I baked these myself!" He bowed awkwardly while trying to hold the tray steady, then turned to the nearest bystanders and began trying to sell them with a song he'd obviously made up on the spot. "If from me you buy a pie, you will like it like Sir Guy!"
Catching Guy's scowl, Quenilda and Eva both grinned in obvious delight. "It's easy to make a rhyme for Sir Guy," Quenilda told him.
It rhymes with 'die', Guy thought morosely.
"Ivo said once that the only thing that rhymes with Quenilda is Hilda, my lady," Eva added. "But he has a worse time finding a rhyme for Lady Isolda."
Quenilda smiled even more. Guy didn't have time to answer, though, because someone else was tugging at his sleeve to get his attention, and from then on, he was positively showered with other gifts, coins, and verbal thank yous. Even the herb merchant refused Quenilda's offer of payment by saying that she'd obviously used up a great deal of her supplies on the knight in black leather, and he was willing to replace them at no charge. By the time they were ready made their way back to the castle, with Eva behind them, groaning under the weight of the presents, Guy was starting to enjoy himself. It occurred to him that Hood might feel this same pleasure, with everybody fawning over him in gratitude. Maybe that was why he did it. It was certainly better than having people running in fear, barely tolerating his presence, and making signs against evil behind his back or whenever they thought he wasn't looking.
It wasn't until they were eating dinner that he remembered his assignment, to make sure that Quenilda bought something nice for herself. He spent the rest of the meal waiting for the Earl to accuse him of shirking his duty and humiliate him in front of everybody, especially when Quenilda briefly mentioned the herbs. But the conversation moved briskly from Guy's gifts to the families who had suffered the loss of a daughter or a sister, to the question of where the dragon had come from in the first place, and from there to foreign lands in general, the Holy Land in particular, and, inevitably, the crusade. The Earl never once referred to Guy's lapse, and Guy went to bed feeling both relieved and, strangely, a little guilty.
The next day was Sunday, and Guy could not refuse the Earl's invitation to attend church with them. During the service, he stood at the man's side, feeling awkward and unworthy. He hadn't been in a chapel since the time he'd almost married Lady Marian, but the memory of how she'd left him standing at the altar was less overwhelming than he'd expected. Guy felt worse when he thought of her death, and found himself wishing that somehow, some day, he could be forgiven for that. He imagined Marian as an angel, possessing pure white wings that allowed her to fly and hover in front of him so that she could lean forward, kiss him on the cheek and say, as Quenilda had said, "You really are forgiven."
She'd fly away again, of course, back up to her place in heaven, but Guy thought that the relief that her words would bring would vanquish all the pains of hell forever. It was only later, when they were walking back to the keep, that Guy remembered that he could never be forgiven, and that Marian would never say those words to him, whether in this life or the next.
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After a lunch during which Quenilda noticed Sir Guy getting restless and casting longing looks at the wine, Quenilda decided that a long walk in the the fresh air would be just what he needed. Doing good on the Sabbath was expressly permitted in the Bible, and so she'd got into the habit of taking her grandfather to the healing springs each week, to bathe his eyes in the cold water and help him retain his ability to distinguish between light and dark. During a lull in the conversation, she invited Sir Guy to accompany them. He nodded, not having said much throughout the meal, and stood up silently up from the table when they did.
"I dreamed of Sir Guy this morning," Thurstan said as they strolled, arm in arm, along the road.
"Did it involve Robin Hood?" Quenilda asked, glancing up to where Sir Guy was striding quickly ahead of them.
"No," Thurstan replied. "What was the name of that guard, the one whose daughter was the first to be chosen --?"
"Osbert," Quenilda said quickly, before her grandfather could finish the question.
"Yes, Osbert. I dreamed he attacked Sir Guy."
Quenilda frowned, thinking of all her hard work in nursing Sir Guy back to health after the dragon had bitten him. "Did he kill him?"
"He wanted to," Thurstan mused. "And Sir Guy was angry, but mostly at himself, I think, because part of him still wanted to die, and yet the part of him that wanted to stay alive was getting stronger. But no, I didn't see the end."
"I hope Sir Guy doesn't kill him," Quenilda said. "He's lost a daughter, true, but he's still got his son, and a hope for grandchildren one day."
"Grandchildren are the light of my life," Thurstan said, giving her a smile. "Everybody should have some."
Quenilda lifted her grandfather's hand to her face so that he could feel her own grin. "Even me?"
"Especially you."
"It's hard for me to think about grandchildren when I'm not even married yet," Quenilda said.
"I never thought of babies when I was your age, either," Thurstan said. "Not even when I was playing dragon and maiden with a – well, never mind about that."
Feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment, Quenilda was glad for once that her grandfather could not see, and quickly changed the subject. "I don't think Sir Guy will have grandchildren. I dreamed about him the other day, too. He left Throxenby alone, and was attacked by men who wanted to take him to Robin Hood."
"For the fifty pound reward?" Thurstan asked, and Quenilda made a noise of assent. "Even though they'd be rich enough if they had just robbed him and left him. You should have seen what happened in the marketplace yesterday, grandfather! It seemed that everybody had something to give him in thanks for killing the dragon."
"Perhaps not everybody," Thurstan corrected her, then said suddenly, "Listen!"
Quenilda looked instead. A few paces up the road, Sir Guy was standing warily in front of the very Osbert they had been speaking about, his hand on the hilt of his sword as Osbert bellowed up into his face.
"Why didn't you come earlier, huh? Why didn't you save my daughter?" Osbert was demanding as Quenilda and Thurstan approached.
"Osbert!" Quenilda called out, and both men turned to look at her. Letting go of her grandfather, Quenilda ran ahead to place her hand on the man's arm. "Osbert –"
Now that she was closer, she could smell the drink on him and recognize, even before he shrugged her hand off, that Osbert was in no mood to be comforted.
"And why are you still alive?" Osbert shouted at her. "Why not my Matilda? She was only fourteen!"
"I don't know, Osbert," Quenilda said, genuinely puzzled. "I don't know."
"That lottery was fixed, that's why!" Osbert raged. "The Earl never had any intention of sacrificing his daughters, no, not when he could send ours to the dragon instead!"
"That's not true!" Quenilda protested. She and Isolda had taken their chances in the lottery like anybody else – in fact, they'd always had to be first to reach into the bag to draw one of the wooden markers, and she'd recognized, each time, the fear that her father had tried to hide as they'd done so. Seeing that Osbert was close to tears now, she extended her arms, intending to hug him, but he put out both hands and shoved her violently away. Sir Guy reached for his sword again, and Quenilda cried out, "No!"
Sir Guy looked surprised, but stopped, and Quenilda explained, "He doesn't mean me harm, he is only grieving."
Sir Guy gave Osbert a hard glare, then removed his hand from the hilt of his sword. From behind her, Thurstan said, "Have a care, my granddaughter. Men who are grieving are the most dangerous, because they do not care if they die – in fact, they welcome death."
"I should have died instead of Mathilda," Osbert sobbed. "The Earl should have let me go to the dragon in her place!"
"But you were not a maid!" Quenilda protested, carefully laying one hand on his shoulder.
"How would the dragon have known?" Osbert's anger cut through his sobs. "I cannot tell the difference between a ewe and a ram when the meat is in my stewpot! How would a dragon tell the difference between a maid and a man?"
Sir Guy smirked at this logic, and from behind them, Quenilda heard Thurstan say simply, "It had to be a maid, or the knight in black leather would not have come."
With a wordless cry of rage, Osbert lunged at him and swung his fist. The blow caught Thurstan directly in the face and dropped him to the ground. At first, Quenilda was too shocked to scream; all she could do was watch, unable to move or even speak, as Sir Guy grabbed Osbert from behind and prevented him from throwing himself onto the older man. Twisting the man's arm behind his back, Sir Guy spun him around, then propelled him up the path in the direction of the spring. As soon as they were out of the way, Quenilda flung herself down at Thurstan's side. "Grandfather?"
Blood gushed from Thurstan's nose, flowing down across his mouth and right cheek. Moaning and hissing with pain, he felt cautiously around his face, but when Quenilda reached out to do the same, he bit back any sound and only winced.
"I don't think it's broken," Quenilda finally decided.
"Then help me stand before Sir Guy kills him." Thurstan reached out and caught hold of her arm. For a change, he led her, going so well in the right direction that she only had to correct him twice. They arrived just as Osbert staggered unter Sir Guy's blows and fell into the healing spring. Calling for them to stop, Quenilda let go of her grandfather and ran over to pull the man out of the water before he drowned. He shrugged her off, then crawled out on the other side and remained crouched there, spluttering and gasping.
"You're soaked," Quenilda told him. "After you've apologized to my grandfather, you must go home and get dry or you will catch lung fever."
With a roar, Osbert heaved himself up again and spat in her direction. "Apologize? To the man who said that the dragon would only eat maidens? To the man who said that a knight in black leather would be able to defeat the dragon, but couldn't tell us when? It's his fault that my Mathilda's dead – I won't apologize to him, I'll kill him!"
He rushed at Thurstan again, and Quenilda flung herself protectively in front of her grandfather. Just as he reached her, Osbert stopped in mid-motion, then glanced down in sheer astonishment. Quenilda followed his gaze, and gasped. The blade of a sword was sticking through his jacket, and Quenilda felt a cold shiver as she realized that the sword had come from behind her, through the space between her body and her arm. Osbert staggered backwards and dropped a dagger from his hand that Quenilda hadn't even seen him draw. Coming out of the wound, the tip of the sword was revealed, with less than a finger's breadth of blood at the end, and then the entire blade disappeared back the way it had come. As Osbert fingered the tiny wound, still looking surprised, Quenilda felt a hand grip her shoulder and whirl her around.
"Woman!" Sir Guy shouted at her. He'd sheathed his sword, now he clapped his hands on both of her shoulders and started to shake her violently. "You never get in the way of a man with a sword, you stupid, stupid woman! I could have killed you, Marian, I could have run this right through you –"
Suddenly, Sir Guy pulled her close and planted his mouth on hers, kissing her as violently as he had been shaking her a moment ago. Caught unawares, Quenilda was unable to react at first, but then she tried to free herself with a shove. Sir Guy had already lifted both hands to her head, however, and hung on, his kisses becoming even more urgent. Through them, he murmured, "Marian, no, don't push me away, please –"
He began to stroke her hair, but when his fingers found the beginning of her plait, he stopped. His kisses stopped, too, and he raised his head to look down at her in bewilderment.
"I—I'm not Marian," Quenilda said. It was strange how shaky her voice sounded in her own ears. Sir Guy blinked several times, then let go of her head, his expression so miserable that she automatically added, "I'm sorry."
Sir Guy backed away without speaking, then turned suddenly and all but ran back towards the keep. Quenilda watched him go, her heart thudding in her chest and her mouth throbbing. Eventually, however, splashing sounds caught her attention, and she glanced over to the healing spring. Osbert had retreated to one side of it and was holding up his tunic with one hand while he used the other to cup water and dash it over his wound. On the other side, her grandfather had stuck his entire face into the spring, and as she watched, he lifted it up and let the water run off. There was no blood left on his mouth or chin, and none coming out of his nose, either.
With a rush, Quenilda's powers of both thought and speech returned. "Oh, Grandfather, I'm sorry, I should have helped you!"
"I thought you might be a bit busy," Thurstan replied. "And I'm not so helpless that I can't find the water that's right in front of me."
He sounded almost merry, despite his nose. On the other side of the spring, Osbert got to his feet, and Quenilda reached out. "Osbert, let me stitch that up for you. I'll get you some salve and bandages."
"I don't want your help," Osbert growled, pulling his tunic down. "It's just a scratch, and if there's any stitching to be done, Albreda can do it!"
He stomped away down the south path, in the opposite direction from Throxenby, Albreda's house, and everything else, and leaving Quenilda feeling curiously hurt by his rejection. At her side, Thurstan straightened up and groped for her arm. She took it automatically, and they walked in silence.
No longer distracted, Quenilda found her thoughts returning to the feeling of Sir Guy's lips on hers. Her first kiss, she thought, and felt both sad and angry that it had been such a disappointment. According to both Isolda and her mother, and all the love songs that Ivo had ever sung, kisses were supposed to be very pleasant and make you want more. Instead, she'd had her lips mashed against her teeth like herbs inside a mortar while Sir Guy's hands had held her head so tightly she couldn't pull away. Tears stung her eyes and she suddenly wished she'd had the presence of mind to slap him. Then she remembered how wretched he'd looked when he'd discovered she wasn't Marian, and her anger turned to pain, for him and a little for herself.
Obviously sensing her distress, her grandfather patted her arm and said, "You can't heal everything, Quenilda, no matter how much you might want to."
"I know!" she exclaimed, the words coming out as a sob, and then she flung her arms around her grandfather and buried her face in his tunic. Thurstan held her tightly, made soothing noises, stroked her hair and her back, and finally asked, "Why are you crying, Quenilda?"
"I don't know," she wailed.
"I think you might be crying because you wanted Sir Guy to kiss you," he said. Quenilda raised her face to look up at him, ready to protest, but he went on. "Not the memory of his Lady Marian, but you, Quenilda, the girl he saved from the dragon, the daughter of Earl Alfward."
All the way home, Quenilda considered the theory, eventually coming to the conclusion that her grandfather might just be right. She remained silent, however, not yet willing to admit it out loud.
Part 6