Page 83 of Wench

‘Best keep your tongue, Eamon. It’s the only thing you haven’t squandered yet.’

The words fold her father smaller, and Marian seizes the opening like a blade. ‘You’ll die as you lived – a coward, back bent and gagged, while another swings the axe. And I will die before I forgive you for it.’

The guards curse and wrench her down the spiral staircase, into the belly of the house. The air thickens, damp with mildew and the metallic tang of rust and old blood. Torches gutter in sconces along the walls, throwing bars of shadow across the stones.

The guards haul her to a row of cells, each reeking of piss and despair. They throw her hard against the far wall and she hits the flagstones and hay with a grunt, cheek splitting against rough stone, as the guards slam the door behind them. When she looks up, the Sheriff’s gaze glints at her through the bars.

He’s wiped his face, but blood still rims his nostrils. ‘I suggest you try to get some sleep. When your backwoods bastard comes for you, I will make him watch as I drape you in silk and pull wedding vows from that pretty mouth of yours. As for your precious Robin Hood,’ he spits the name, ‘I will bind him to the pyre and let the flames singe the life from his skin as a wedding gift.’

The guards laugh as their leader turns the key, and they walk away, leaving only the echo of their boots behind.

Hours pass in the small, brutal geometry of the cell. Marian sinks back against the wall, wrists throbbing where the cuffs bite. The damp crawls through her clothes, into her bones. Allen’s breathing is shallow and uneven – a slow, stubborn rhythm that tells her he’s alive, for now.

Time folds strangely in the dark. The torches burn low and spit, throwing their light in slow pulses, like a faltering heart. Every drop of water that falls from the ceiling sounds louder than it should. Every breath she takes tastes like rust.

When the scrape of boots returns, Marian tenses, every muscle braced for her captor’s return. But instead, she’s met with the mousy, fret-filled expression she’s known since childhood.

‘Tilda?’

Marian’s handmaiden takes the last few steps two at a time, her hazel eyes shining with shock and guilt. She rushes to the bars and reaches for Marian without hesitation.

‘Saints, you’re alive.’

Her voice cracks on the word. She grips the bars like she could pry them apart with her bare hands, knuckles white. Her eyes are rimmed red as if she’s been crying for hours.

Marian drags herself upright, every joint protesting, and crosses the short space between them. Her knees nearly buckle on the first step, but she catches herself against the bars. ‘Barely.’

Tilda’s trembling hands are warm against her cheek. ‘I tried to get the keys.’ She glances toward the stairs, voice dropping to a whisper. ‘The guards – there are too many of them. And the Sheriff’s men don’t drink enough to be bribed any more.’

‘You shouldn’t be here. If they?—’

‘I couldn’t sit back and do nothing.’ Tilda shakes her head, eyes glistening. ‘Not again.’

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The torchlight wavers over Tilda’s face, gilding the tear-tracks there. Marian studies her the way she used to as a child. There’s something harder in her handmaiden now, something forged by the same flames that seem to have burned them both.

‘When I heard you’d been taken by those barbarians,’ Tilda says softly, ‘I thought I’d be finding what was left of you in a ditch. Or worse, hanging from one of their trees. But look at you . . .’ Her eyes sweep over Marian, taking in the dirt, the bruises, the iron cuffs. ‘You lookdifferent. Thinner, yes, but stronger. More yourself.’

Marian exhales a shaky breath. ‘I’m not sure what that means.’

‘It means,’ Tilda murmurs, voice wavering, ‘you look like the girl you were before your father taught you to flinch. There’s fire in you again.’ She swallows, as if the sight of it frightens her. ‘Though, saints forgive me, I don’t know how you survived. I was certain the fae would kill you. Or worse.’

Marian’s lips curve. ‘They’re not what we were told.’

Tilda’s brow furrows, scepticism knitting her face. ‘The lot of them are creatures without mercy or soul. They?—’

‘Are no different than us,’ Marian finishes. ‘They bleed. They grieve. They love. The only difference is that God saw fit to give them magic.’ She shakes her head, exhaustion bleeding into something close to remorse. ‘All they want is to live in peace. To keep their forest safe from men like my father and the Sheriff, who want to carve it hollow.’

Tilda crosses herself before she can stop the motion. She glances over at Allen’s cell. ‘You sound as though you pity them.’

Marian gives a hoarse laugh. ‘I’ve seen monsters’ cruelty first-hand, and it wasn’t theirs. It was his.’ She tilts her chin toward the ceiling, where the echo of the Sheriff’s boots had faded hours ago. ‘The fae don’t make sport of torment. They don’t string people up for defiance or salt the earth for power. Everything the Sheriff fears in them, he became long ago.’

‘You’ve always had a dangerous tongue.’ Tilda’s mouth presses thin, but the rebuke lacks passion. She looks over her shoulder again before leaning closer to the bars. ‘Things have gotten worse than you know since you vanished. The Sheriff and his men have turned this place into a barracks. They come and go as they please, drunk on power if not on wine. Your father’s not himself – half their prisoner, half their partner. And the Sheriff . . .’ She swallows. ‘He’s obsessed, Marian. He’s got it in his head that if he can catch this Robin Hood and his band of outlaws, he’ll be crowned a hero by the king himself.’

The muscle in Marian’s jaw twitches. ‘And he thinks I’ll be the bait to catch him,’ she seethes. ‘The moment I’ve served my purpose, he’ll throw me to his dogs.’

Tilda’s face tightens, grief and fury warring beneath her wrinkles. ‘That’s how men often are,’ she murmurs, fingers curling tighter around the bars. ‘They take and take, and when there’s nothing left, they call it loyalty.’

Marian huffs a bitter laugh. ‘Not all men.’