Page 6 of Wench

‘Be reasonable, Baldric,’ her father whines.

‘Reasonable?’ the Sheriff hisses. ‘I was reasonable when I let your men crawl back alive after failing me. I was reasonable when I didn’t string you up beside the forge as an example. But now? Now I’ve no patience left to spare. The people of Nottingham need a show of strength, not excuses. While our king bleeds heathens in the Holy Lands, I am here. I am the one keeping order. I am the one who shows strength.’

Marian presses her back to the wall; the stone leaches any warmth from her spine, anchoring her while she strains to hear.

‘We need more time,’ her father replies, a tremor of desperation beneath his pleading. ‘The ore veins run shallow this side of Sherwood and the fae grow bolder the deeper we go, snatching my miners and leaving nothing but their boots in the soil. The men will not go deeper into Sherwood, and if I press further, I’ll lose what little workforce I have left.’

‘Then I’ll find you men,’ the Sheriff snaps. ‘Criminals rot by the dozen in my dungeons. If they’re to be wasted, better they waste their lives for something useful.’

Marian’s throat tightens. The wool of her skirts scratches rough against her knees, the sound loud in her ears though the men beyond the door hear nothing but each other.

A chair scrapes harshly against stone, followed by the heavy thump of boots pacing. The Sheriff’s voice lowers, but the venom in it is unmistakable.

‘You think me a fool, Hallomere? I already gave you every coin I scrounged from those peasants to forge what that fae cretin stole from under your nose. And what do I have to show for it?’

Her father’s voice trembles through the wood like a cracked bell. ‘What you want is no mere feat, Baldric. These weapons demand careful tempering, and the fae ore resists us more with each passing day. If I rush my smiths, we risk breaking the very weapons you need.’

The Sheriff laughs, a short, sharp bark with no mirth in it. ‘Spare me your coward’s litany. You whine of time, of veins too shallow, of men too fearful, but it matters not. I must have a strike force armed and ready to tear Sherwood apart root and branch! I will cut the heart from the fae and string their corpses for the crows, and Nottingham will know whose hand keeps them safe.’

He lets out a weighted sigh, before continuing. ‘Word of this little operation might reach the Crown.’ He lets the threat hang there, unfinished but pulsing with significance. ‘I imagine your title, your estate, and that pretty little forge would all be forfeit.’

Another voice slides into the fray, thinner than the Sheriff’s but no less venomous.

‘Traitor has such an unkind ring to it, doesn’t it, Lord Hallomere?’ the Sheriff’s lieutenant drawls.

Marian’s nails bite crescents into her palms. Her knees weaken as she leans harder into the wall, the chill biting through wool to bone.

‘Perhaps what Lord Hallomere needs is a stronger motivator.’

The pause that follows is long enough to suffocate. ‘Tell me, has Marian had any suitors lately?’

‘My—’ Her father chokes on the word. ‘Marian?’

The Sheriff chuckles. ‘Come now, don’t sound so surprised. That daughter of yours is all soft manners and downcast lashes. She’d make a lovely bride, and tying her to me would ensure protection for the pair of you should the worst occur.’

‘She wouldn’t suit you, Baldric,’ Lord Hallomere says weakly. ‘Too stubborn and far too headstrong.’

‘I like them obstinate. It makes the breaking all the sweeter.’

‘My daughter is not a bargaining chip.’

‘Oh, but she is, Eamon,’ the Sheriff murmurs, the softness of his voice more chilling than a shout. ‘She’s the only currency you have left that still holds value. A union between our houses would make tongues wag just enough to distract from what you’re really churning in your forge. And if the king returns from the Crusades, I’ll already have my legacy secured in her womb so he could not deny blessing our union.’

Fury coils beneath Marian’s skin. It isn’t just a deal. It’s a sentence.

Her limbs snap into motion, fury propelling her forward. She slams the study door open so hard that it rattles on its hinges. Aengus and her father jerk toward her in surprise. But the Sheriff merely turns, slowly, one brow arched in amusement, as though she were a deer wandering into a hunter’s trap.

He is cloaked in rich leathers embossed with serpentine patterns and fastened with dark metal clasps. His salt-and-pepper hair falls past his shoulders in unruly waves, merging with his beard, framing a face carved from stone and smug satisfaction. His eyes are cold and calculating. He studies her like a collector coming across a rare specimen for his cabinet.

But Marian isn’t deterred. She walks into the room, spine straight and eyes wild.

‘I refuse to be sold like chattel.’

Aengus’s mouth falls open. ‘How dare you barge in here! This impertinence cannot go unanswered, my lord. A daughter who cannot be controlled invites ruin upon the house.’

Marian’s chest heaves, but she doesn’t lower her gaze. ‘You will never have me,’ she spits at the Sheriff, ignoring the lieutenant entirely.

Aengus reels back, colour flooding his face in blotches. His spindly hands curl into fists at his sides. ‘This child has grown wild and must be punished!’