Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand by Toby Venables

Author:Toby Venables [Venables, Toby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical, Adventure, Fantasy
ISBN: 9781781082904
Amazon: B00RBGCEX2
Barnesnoble: B00RBGCEX2
Goodreads: 21412151
Publisher: Abaddon
Published: 2014-12-30T05:00:00+00:00

XXXI

King Stormont Castle

25 May, 1193

GISBURNE AWOKE FACE down on the Persian rug, his face hot and itchy against its prickly, dusty fibres.

The sun was high in the sky. He sat up hurriedly, sensing it was late. Far later than he had meant to rise. A blanket slid off him as he did so; someone had covered him as he slept.

Everything had changed. Mélisande’s bed was now empty, her belongings entirely gone. He felt a sense of panic – which common sense managed to suppress. But the feeling of empty desolation that followed was not so easily subdued.

He struggled to his feet, gripped by a sudden sense of urgency, and mortified at the thought of being discovered in the lady’s bedchamber. As he turned, his foot knocked against something. Water slopped and spilled upon the rug. Near where his head had lain was the bowl and cloth, and next to them, tied in a knot, was a scarf of fine green silk.

He felt his heart thump at the sight of it. Snatching it up, without thinking, he brought it to his face. It carried her sweet scent. He drew it away, embarrassed by the impulse despite being completely alone in the chamber.

Perhaps she had left it by mistake. Perhaps she was still here, and it could yet be returned to her. Perhaps he could see her one more time. He gathered himself and hurried to the door, opening it a crack and peering out.

Two things occurred to him as he did so. The knot told him, as clearly as if she had said it herself, that her leaving of it was no accident. And that said that she was well. Both facts filled him with joy.

His wider predicament, however, did not.

He was too late. She had gone. Why did it always have to end like this? Why had she not woken him? The strength of his anger startled him. He had no claims over her – he wasn’t sure anyone did, if they even could – but the thought did little to console him.

Feeling like an adulterer – and indignant at the injustice of the feeling – he stole along the curved stone corridor to his own chamber. Behind its door, he disordered the bed and made hasty, token adjustments to his appearance.

Moments later, he was striding into the sunlit courtyard. It was now almost empty – just the ruts to show where Mélisande’s entourage had been. A handful of the castle’s own servants – plainer by far than Mélisande’s – went about their daily business, acknowledging Gisburne with a courteous nod as they did so.

“Guy!” called a voice. Gisburne turned and spied de Rosseley upon the eastern battlements, his raised arm silhouetted by the sun.

Gisburne waved, and headed for the stone stair.

“You look like shit,” said de Rosseley as his friend approached.

“Good morning to you too, Ross.”

“Well, it’s true. You’ve got a face like a boar’s ball sack and you look like you slept in your clothes.”

“Says the man who resembles a corpse run over by a dozen ox-carts.

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