The Way Back

Chapter Twenty-Two

Weak morning sun hadn't shifted the dew on the cobbles when Guy strode back into Nottingham. The smell of fire from the destroyed barbican lingered, a bitter aftertaste of yesterday's fighting. Carts lumbered past bearing the slain, out to the field where they would be burned. In the opposite direction, trebuchets lumbered into place.  The creak of wheels, the snap of chains and the tap of hammers, workers' shouts and curses, all carried in the still air over a town that held its breath, waiting.

Hubert had sent Guy to relay the king's intentions to Felix: there would be no further attack until these weapons were ready. With no other immediate tasks, Guy had found Raoul, listening to his account of Marlborough's defeat.

"Cowered like a whipped cur when they heard your king was back," the burly second grinned.

Heading for Hubert's lodgings, Guy glanced into the outer bailey. Men toiled there, clearing bodies and broken weapons from the bloodstained cobbles. Since yesterday a scaffold had been erected in one corner. The king had clearly been about his business early; several corpses dangled in the deep, still shade of the wall. Guy paid scant attention, he'd seen his share of hangings.

He reached the house, almost colliding with Archer on his way out.

"I was coming to look for you," he said. "To see if you were alright."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Archer looked at him closely.

"You came past the bailey, didn't you see....?"

"The executions, yes. What of them?"

"Not out here. Come inside." Archer opened the door wider and stepped back to let him.

Guy shouldered into the room. It was cold, empty and cheerless, and smelled of stale ale.

"Where's Hubert?"

"With the king," Archer said tersely. "But there was nothing he could do, he was too late. Guy, those executions. One of them was Isabella. She was caught escaping the siege, her and some of Prince John's sergeants. Richard decided to make an example of them."

"But Isabella's no longer Sheriff. He could have no quarrel with her."

An absurd comment, ignoring the facts; he was stalling, trying to delay the moment he would have to face it.

Which was, after all, now. Guy shook Archer's hand from his arm. He stood erect, as if braced for a blow without knowing the direction from which it would come. Was it sorrow, creeping up on the heels of his memories? Was it regret? Was it loss, not of something tangible, but of a future in which she might have had the same chances he'd been given, to start again, to bury the past and make a new life?

It was all of these things, and it hit him like a mallet-swing so that he slumped forward with a groan, his head bowed, fingertips digging into the rough surface of the table. They whitened under the pressure. Archer pulled out a chair and eased him down onto it; Guy didn't resist. Archer sat also, resting an arm about his shoulders. Guy didn't shrug him off. Brother. Suddenly that seemed like the most important thing in the world, something he could cling to.

The door opened and chill morning light spilled in with Hubert, Raff and Robin. Guy raised his head, saw a deep compassion flicker in the archbishop's eyes, and looked away, scrubbing a hand across his face.

"He knew, didn't he?" he rasped. "That she was my sister. He did this to warn me as much as anyone, the bastard."

Anger. Something else he could hold onto.

"Careful, Sir Guy," Hubert reprimanded gently. "The King acted within his rights."

"You didn't answer my question." He shoved the chair back and stood, glaring at Robin. "And where were you, did you even try to stop him? You're his pet, he listens to you."