Page 51 of Wench

‘Is that why he doesn’t speak?’

‘The smoke marred the insides of his throat until it was riddled with scars.’

‘But the healers, couldn’t they?—’

‘I’m sure the weavers could, but Little John’s always favoured more natural healing methods. That’s why that blasted cut on his leg still hasn’t mended.’

Marian chews the inside of her cheek, swallowing the guilt that niggles at her for shooting him in the first place.

‘And then there’s Will.’ Allen’s mouth quirks as he adjusts her shoulders. ‘Not much is known about our darling Willow. Ask ten mouths in Elswyth how Will and Lox met and you’ll get eleven answers. Despite our many years together, they remain a mystery and keep that past of theirs locked up tighter than a church coffer. Rumour has it they rescued each other. Lox cut the rope, Will broke the trap, and Sherwood decided to keep them both. Either way, we three became the “Merry Men”, as you say.’

‘The Sheriff of Nottingham says you’re monsters,’ Marian huffs, her fringe fluttering off her sweat-drenched forehead. ‘That you raid caravans and slit throats in the dark.’

Allen’s eyes harden. ‘That bloated toad also claims that taxes are holy and hunger is a sin.’ He eases her hip a finger’s width until her stance settles. ‘We’ll spoil a tyrant’s table, not a farmer’s. Our aim is to put fear into the men who profit from hunger, not the ones trying to outlive it, human or fae. When we raid, we cut harnesses, not throats; we spill grain, not blood. Mercy is our first blade, because justice without cruelty takes discipline. It’s choosing when to stop when rage begs you to keep going.’

Marian thinks of Lox in the clearing. The forest lifting its roots like spears, only to be followed by his gore-covered hands gentling at her brow. Two truths, knotted together. Her finger brushes against the scar on her chest.

‘The men who did that,’ he nods at the mark, ‘made their choice. And Lox made his.’ His voice stays even. ‘We don’t go looking for blood, but there are nights when the kindest thing you can do for the living is to stop a vile creature from breathing. I won’t dress it up for you. Sometimes the door to mercy is locked, and the only key left is violence.’

Marian thinks of priests who called every sword a sacrament if it served the Crown, of sermons that turned slaughter into cleanliness. Allen isn’t doing that. He isn’t asking her to clap for it. He’s merely refusing to lie.

‘Why did you stay?’ she asks, softer than before.

Allen’s smile thins. ‘Because under Lox, my anger started feeding people instead of feeding itself. With Lox, justice doesn’t have to be cruel to be firm. He’d rather carry the weight of the hard choices, so the rest of us don’t drown in them.’

She pictures Lox at her bedside, the way his voice went quiet around the wordprotection, like it meant more than law. The stories she was fed had filed the fae down to fangs and temptation, but her beliefs are beginning to feel like old stitches pulling tight before loosening.

‘Lox could roam the green from ridge to sea and never answer to a soul,’ Allen continues, joining in on his own mat. ‘Instead, he built a hearth under the canopy, collected those of us who thought were beyond saving, and told us to bring our ruined bits and make something better.’

They work through more of John’s silent drills, weight-shifts and breath, until the ache in Marian’s ribs is a steady throb and sweat streaks her back. Her tunic clings, damp, her curls plastered to her cheeks, but she doesn’t stop. Each stance, each breath, feels like reclaiming a piece of herself.

Around midday, John finally lowers himself to roll up the mat, signalling the end.

Marian scowls. ‘That’s it? Just standing and breathing?’

‘Foundations,’ Allen reminds her, plopping onto his back, lute-less but still restless. ‘You don’t build a tower by starting at the spire.’

Her jaw tightens. ‘But I need to know how to fight, how to stop them. If it happens again—’ Her voice splinters. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t be helpless again.’

Allen’s expression flickers, shadows slipping beneath his usual brightness. ‘I know that feeling.’ His voice has lost its playfulness, gone quiet with memory. ‘But if you try to sprint before you’ve even learned to walk, you’ll only fall harder. You need the bones before the muscle.’ He pushes himself upright and crosses to the wood-bin by the hearth. He selects two willow wands, each the length of a forearm, and tests their flex before holding one out to her. ‘You’re not ready for a blade yet, but perhaps we can start with teaching you the rhythm before the song.’

Her fingers close around the wood. It’s light and smooth from many hands, nothing like a dagger’s weight, and yet the moment it rests against her skin, heat climbs her neck. She can still feel cold steel at her back, that obscene intimacy of a point testing the space between ribs.

‘We’ll start where it went wrong,’ Allen begins, lifting the stick to touch the space between her shoulders. Instantly, her mind catapults her back to the forest floor.

Her breath seizes. The press of willow against her flesh is enough to summon the echo of cold steel, the stink of sweat, the laughter in her ear. Her ribs seize as if memory itself has hands.

Allen senses it instantly. His voice softens, steady and low. ‘You’re here, Marian. You’re not in the clearing. You’re safe.’ He waits until her shoulders cease their trembling, never once rushing her. ‘We start here because the body doesn’t know the difference between remembering and reliving.’

He shifts his stance, demonstrating the smallest movement – a pivot of the hip, a change in weight. ‘If a blade appears behind you, most folk do one of two things: turn hard and cut their own flesh on the knife, or go limp and give the bastard choices. Neither serves you.’ He guides her with two fingers at her hip, light but certain. ‘Small turn, quick movements. Now your heart isn’t where he expects. He has to adjust, and in that splinter of time, you move.’

Marian exhales through her teeth, forcing the breath low like John taught her. She pivots again, the stick sliding just past her ribs instead of into them. The air hums with the motion.

‘Good,’ Allen murmurs. ‘Catch the hand, not the blade. He lives or dies by his grip.’ He shows her the joint, angles the stick across his own wrist, and lets her see the mechanics. ‘You don’t need strength, just leverage. Step here, weight on the outside edge, and press.’

Her stick slides under his wrist, his arm folding neatly into a shape that would drop any man to his knees. It’s a dance disguised as survival, and for a heartbeat she almost forgets the pain beneath her bandages.

‘You don’t need to be stronger than him, merely smart enough to stay beyond the reach of his elbow.’ He rotates, guiding her stick under his, levering his arm into a shape no body enjoys.