Page 9 of Wench

Marian inhales sharply. It’s one of her mother’s. She remembers it vaguely from childhood, a glint she always had tucked into her hair. A shimmer of steel disguised as beauty.

‘My mother,’ she whispers, ‘used to tell me that foxes survive not because they’re the strongest or the most aggressive, but because they’re clever.’

‘Aye.’ Tilda nods, her voice barely more than breath.

‘Because they know when to vanish . . . and when to strike.’ Tilda takes the pin and weaves it into the back of Marian’s braid. Her fingers linger there a moment longer, as if casting a prayer into the strands.

A knock splits the silence. Too loud. Too soon.

Tilda stiffens, smooths a final strand of hair into place and stands, shoulders squared. She moves to the door and opens it just a crack.

Four guards stand on the other side, already bristling, the Sheriff’s crest gleaming on their shoulders. One of them moves inside without waiting for an invitation.

‘It’s time.’ His voice is flat, disinterested, as if he’s fetching the laundry.

The words land like a stone in Marian’s chest.

She forces her spine straight and stands. Her father would want her bowed and the Sheriff would savour it. So she does not bend. Even as her knees tremble beneath the weight of wool and despair, she walks.

The corridor stretches long and cold, skirts dragging across the flagstones as she is shepherded down the hall. Her fingers twitch at her sides, aching for her bow, for parchment and charcoal, for anything that belongs to her alone.

A guard pulls open the manor doors. Cold morning air rushes in, carrying the scent of damp earth, forge smoke, and distant pine. The Sheriff’s carriage waits in the yard like a beast crouched in ambush, the crest of his house painted in garish strokes across the door.

Marian braces for his grin, his gaze, his stench of command, dread sinking into her limbs at the thought of the close press of him during the ride to Nottingham. But when the guard wrenches the door open, the interior gapes empty, dark velvet cushions untouched.

And the Sheriff is nowhere to be found.

Relief slams through her so sharply, her knees nearly give. She climbs inside, skirts bunching in her fists to keep from tripping on the step. The door slams behind her.

She does not look out the window. She cannot bear to see whether her father stands at the threshold watching her go, or whether Tilda waits in the doorway with her fists clenched and tears unshed.

Four of the Sheriff’s guards flank the carriage on horseback, one at each corner, like wolves pacing near the bones of a kill. A sharp rap on the roof is the only warning she has before the driver cracks the reins and the carriage lurches forward.

Outside, the yard blurs until the manor recedes, stone walls and smokestacks dwindling until Sherwood rises to meet her, its branches arching high and wide, an endless colonnade of green shadow. The carriage plunges into it without hesitation, wheels biting deep into the rutted path to Nottingham. The forest closes in on either side, trunks crowding and boughs weaving tight overhead, until the light itself feels strangled and the morning dims again into shadow.

Marian sits stiff-backed, hands folded neatly in her lap.

Her eyes fix on the window, though the view is nothing but endless green.

The road jostles beneath the wheels; every bounce makes the boning of her gown bite harder beneath her arms. She grips the seat’s edge with her fingers hidden in folds of fabric, nails digging against plush cushions until they ache.

Suddenly, the rhythm breaks without warning.

The carriage halts and jerks her forward, her palms slamming against the opposite bench, pain sparking up her arms. Outside, the horses snort and stamp, the driver swearing as leather reins snap taut.

‘Saints, what now?’ one soldier grunts.

‘Looks like a felled tree,’ another answers, his voice tight. ‘Cut clean through.’

Marian leans forward, her breath catching as she strains her ears to listen.

The horses toss their heads, reins snapping, leather creaking as the driver fights to keep them steady. Marian can hear the scrape of hooves pawing at the earth as though they, too, want to turn back.

‘We’ve no time for this,’ the driver growls. ‘The Sheriff wanted her at the chapel by the first bell.’

‘And what do you suggest?’ another grunts. ‘Drag the tree aside with our bare hands? By the time we clear the road, Nottingham’s knell will have rung twice.’

The fourth voice, lower and scratchier, comes from behind the carriage. ‘He’ll have our bollocks on pikes if we’re late.’