It took me several moments to stand on my feet, but I weren’t never going to miss this day.

Gisbourne strode off to the fields, and I followed slow behind, pulling myself tighter with every step.

I would get to the tourney grounds.

I would sit there and stare at the prince.

I wouldn’t never be defeated by such a coward.

I would cheer for Rob with my heart and soul.

My whole body were shaking by the time I made it outside, and the cold rushed around me like a bear hug. It made it easier to breathe, to think beyond the pain, and I loved it.

Even walking toward the grounds, I could see what difference a day had made. The place were overrun, packed with common folk everywhere you could look. Children were hoisted on shoulders and people pressed together in a crush, wedged together to get a glimpse of the people’s champion.

Guards appeared to escort me into the nobles’ dais. One reached out to cup my elbow and help me along the path, and I wondered how rough I looked. My hand, still tucked safe in the sling, weren’t bleeding through; save for any sign of it that showed on my face, no one should be able to tell what had passed, and I were glad for it.

It were the first time I wanted to hide their cruelty. I didn’t want them to use me to hurt Rob; I didn’t want him for one moment to take my pain and make it his. And I hated that in so doing, it seemed like I were ashamed they’d done it.

I slid into a chair, feeling more like the washing run over a washboard than a whole girl. A trumpet sounded and the contestants were led into the arena—it had been rearranged from the day before into one wide space, the grounds for the melee, a mock battle where all the men fought in chaotic hand-to-hand combat.

A mock battle they were placing Rob dead in the center of.

Robin were one of the last to enter, and the whole place broke open with cheers and noise and sound. He were tired, that were fair clear, his face shadowed and dark. He walked cross the arena and his eyes set to searching the nobles.

He were looking for me.

His eyes moved past me, then roved back, his face folding into a frown, looking me over like a mother searching her cub for scratches. I met his eyes and smiled at him, but it felt weak and sad on my mouth.

His eyebrows wove together like knitting and he looked more worried ’stead of less.

The prince stood and spoke, but I didn’t hear it. I weren’t sure if it were the wind and where he stood that carried his voice off, or if it were the awful pounding in my hand that rang back through my skull what made it hard to hear. Didn’t matter none; I knew he were saying something about fight, fight, fight, someone will win when you are all mock dead.

The fight didn’t start just then. The players vanished from the field like smoke, and I shut my eyes for a moment, trying to breathe as pain rushed over me in a wave. Time dipped and swung, and I weren’t sure how long they’d been shut when someone called to me and touched my arm.

It were close enough to my hand that it felt like a knife, not a finger, and I fought back a howl as I turned to the source.

Eleanor’s blue eyes, made fierce and cool by the white, white skin around them, stared at me from her seat beside me.

“What did he do to you?” she said soft. She blinked, and it felt like whatever tether had bound us in her eyes were broke. My eyes slipped back and her next question sounded far off. “Marian, what happened?”

I heard her voice, murmured to her ladies near her, and soon I opened my eyes into leaping fire.

For a breath, I thought I were back at the monastery and the pain had come from Rob, but then the threads of reality braided back together and I saw a brazier fire had been brought on the dais before us, the guards banking the coals to lower the flames. Were I too cold? Were that what were wrong?

“Marian,” she said quiet, only to me, and her hand slipped along mine, fishing into the sling. I hissed; it felt like it were a hundred times too big, too sore, too everything.

She saw the red starting to bloom on the bandage, and she fixed my cloak to lay over it. I twisted as my blood pulsed double-hard in my hand.

“Hush,” she said to me, and her hands were gentle on me. “You are strong, Marian. You are well and strong.”

Something cold fell on the bandage and I wrenched at the weight, but didn’t yell. I tried to look past the fire to the field, to Rob, to see if he noticed, but I couldn’t see past the flames.

The cold sank through the cloth and began to ease the pain, and I were only just aware of myself. My chest were heaving like iron bellows and I were half out of my chair. I straightened, raising my head up to look out on the field.

The melee were on in full. Most were mounted; I reckoned that losing your horse were probably the first round of elimination. I saw Gisbourne, all in black on his huge white destrier, slashing with his broadsword. He looked like a demon.

Rob were half swallowed. He were on a farm horse, a head and hands shorter than the rest of them, but he were charging through more men than Gisbourne. And every hit he made were followed by cheers like an echo.

Watching him made everything hurt less. He were handsome beyond measure, his face carved stone and living all at once. His body moved with a grace that made me admire every bit of the fighter in him. He were trained for this, the act and practice of war; built for it, honed by it.

And haunted by it.

Part of me cheered with every strike of his sword; part of me mourned.

The main battle line broke as victors like Robin, Gisbourne, and more crossed through to the other side where the infantry would have lain in wait if it were a battle in true. Their horses galloped free and were wheeled back by their riders, ready to clash again.