The Hooded Man

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The Hooded Man

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Courtney Sheets

ISBN: 978-1-61333-360-0

Cover art by Fantasia Frog Designs

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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The Hooded Man

By

Courtney Sheets

~DEDICATION~

To my mother: without your support, love and creativity, I would never have become the writer I am today. Thanks for always believing in me. To the Divas—Gail, Jennifer, Saranna, Robin, Candi, Lianne, Valorie, and Christy—without you this book would not exist. And I would be insane.

Chapter One

Locksley Castle, 1190

The young man plunged the sword deeply in Lord Locksley’s chest; his face twisted with grim satisfaction. Marian, the only witness to the foul crime, felt her heart pound in her ears as she witnessed her father’s mortal wound. The air in her lungs turned icy as her sire crumpled to the ground. Wrenching the stained blade from the body, the handsome killer smiled with undeniable gratification. Lady Marian remained frozen to the stone beneath her feet. Locksley’s life blood crept from the gaping wound, a thick crimson curtain as it congealed in the cool night air. The coppery scent bit the inside her nose. Bile rose from deep within her and churned in her stomach, and she fought the urge to retch. No weakness could be shown to this man. In a desperate attempt to soothe her traitorous body, she fisted her hands, pouring all her pain into the simple act. Her fingernails bit into the tender flesh of her palms as she fought to calm her breathing.

The killer stalked closer, his wiry frame towering over her. Marian sucked in a surprised breath when he roughly hauled her toward him. He stared down into her face, a sneer tugging at his lips, and ran a free hand down her body in a possessive and most unwelcome manner. With the ferocity of a bean sidhe, she reached up and racked her nails down the soft flesh of his face. The killer shoved her away with a rough cry of pain.

You’re a little she-cat, aren’t you? I never knew that beneath the placid exterior held the heart of a tigress. I look forward to breaking you.

You’ll not touch me, she said.

Calm yourself, lady. ’Tis not your virtue I covet. The man grabbed a handful of Marian’s skirts and wiped the blade of his sword clean. He tossed the weapon aside. The cold steel hit the stone floor with a bitter clang that resounded through the chamber. Marian shook at the noise. The killer grabbed her chin with a bloody hand and forced her to meet his gaze. Her father’s sticky blood painted the man’s fingertips and smelled acrid and coppery. His grip tightened painfully on her jaw as she kept her gaze downward.

I hold your life in my hands, Lady Marian, he threatened, releasing her so abruptly she sprawled across the floor. Satisfied, the killer walked toward the open chamber door. Fury slithered deep into her core, and she fought to keep her voice steady.

You will pay.

You are only a woman, weak and lacking power and intelligence. His lips curled into a twisted sneer, eyes flashing with triumph. You are mine to do with as I wish.

I will make you pay. Marian poured her anger into her gaze, wanting him to see her hatred.

You are free to try. Turning on his heels, the monster that England called John Prince of the Realm, sauntered from the chamber.

Marian scrambled toward her father’s body, desperate to reach him. She knelt at his side; the tears she’d held in check now flowed freely down her face.

Father, she said, taking his hand. Lord Locksley turned glassy eyes on her, eyes that once flashed with an abundance of life. Bending to kiss his cheek, Marian was taken aback to find her father still breathing, the sounds shallow and wheezing, barely audible.

My little bird, my robin, he whispered. The words came from the dying man’s soul, a grave plea with no power. A single breath escaped his lips one last time. Lord Locksley was dead. Marian unsheathed the small dagger her father wore at his side. As she held the blade in front of her, the jewels on the hilt transfixed her, gleaming in the candle light. She took a steadying breath and placed the blade across her hand. Hard and fast, not allowing herself time to pause or reflect, Marian dragged the metal across the soft flesh of her palm, cutting deep. The pain of the blade took her by surprise, and she inhaled deeply in an effort to stop from crying out.

Upon my soul, I swear I will avenge you, Father, with my life if needs be. I know I am a woman, but I will find a way to make the Prince pay. She squeezed her fingers together tightly, her knuckles an unnatural white with pressure from her grip. The blood flowing from the wound on her hand mingled with her father’s blood on the stone floor. For a long time, Marian stared at the pool of crimson liquid, her sight unfocused and glassy with grief and determination. Closing her eyes, she let the memories of her father, of her beautiful mother come back to her. The sparkling face of her mother tickled at the corners of her mind. Her father’s boisterous laughter filled her ears.

First, her mother was taken from her, now her father. The desire for revenge against her father’s killer—against the world—flooded her, and she opened her eyes once more. Taking a few calming breaths, Marian fought to regain control on her emotions.

She did not know how long she sat by her father’s side. Finally, she leaned down, kissed her father’s cheek, and rose to her feet. With one final glance at the still body of Lord Locksley, she stepped out in the hallway and shut the door behind her. In a haze, Marian slowly made the journey down the staircase and into the Great Hall.

Attend to your lord! Her voice, harsh with the pain of her loss, rang out through the Great Hall. Whispers and gasps swirled around her. A page bolted up the stairs at her command, nervousness shaking his small frame.

Marian was keenly aware of the sight she presented. Blood soaked through in patches on her dress. Her cheeks felt tight, sticky from where the Prince’s fingers had held her fast. Her palm stung where she had sliced it open and a thin trickle of blood still oozed from the wound.

Mere moments passed before the same boy hurried back down the stairs and ran straight to Marian. Stopping beside her, the boy bent his frame into an awkward bow. His body shook with fear and his expression was pure shock.

My lady, he said. Your father, Lady Marian. He is, oh Lady, there is blood everywhere. Oh Lady, Lord Locksley is dead. The words spilled forth in a jumble as if the boy was trying to comprehend what had happened and make sense of the gruesome scene.

Send for Friar Tuck. We have need of him. Marian pinned the boy with her gaze. Her voice, cold and severe, sounded foreign to her own ears.

Aye, my lady. The boy bowed once again and scurried from the room.

A thunderous crash ricocheted through the Great Hall as the oak chamber doors were flung open, practically splitting their hinges. Soldiers flanked either side of an impeccably clad knight. He led the procession as they stormed through the yawning doorway, flooding into the Great Hall. Marian stood her ground. She was lady of the manor, and as such these men owed her some semblance of respect.

Lady Marian, I hear tell you have murdered your father. Sir Guy of Gisbourne, the honorable Sheriff of Nottingham, strolled into the Great Hall. His husky voice rumbled low in his chest.

With flashing dark eyes, a full sensuous mouth, and a wicked smile, the knight was a favorite among the ladies of the court. Guy would have been a perfect specimen of masculine beauty, except for the jagged scar running the length of his left cheek. While he claimed that the mark had been the result of a fierce battle while in the Holy Land, court rumors more accurately claimed it was the handiwork of a jealous husband who happened across Guy tupping with his wife. Yet more wagging tongues whispered the scar was the devil’s handiwork, branding the dark knight as his own for all England to see. No one knew the true origin of the scar, and as far as Marian could tell, Guy greatly enjoyed the speculation.

He swept his gaze down the length of Marian’s body in an intimate caress. She did not bother to shield the disgust from her face. While others at court might swoon at Guy’s feet, Marian refused to be counted among them. The lust that flashed in the knight’s eyes turned Marian’s stomach.

My father is dead, my lord. But not by my hand.

Think before you answer again, Marian. Look to your dress. It is soaked with blood. Unless you have been slaughtering sheep, I would venture to say the blood on your hands belong to your father’s corpse. Look to the evidence you wear, my fine lady, then answer. Guy smirked.

Numbly, Marian peered down at her pale yellow dress, knowing full well what she would see. The dark stains of her father’s blood from where the Prince had wiped his sword would appear to the entire world as irrefutable proof. Marian raised her hands to her face, the blood now congealed on her palm. Her head shook faintly in denial and the tears came again. She blinked rapidly to push them aside. Guy enjoyed inflicting pain, but she would not give him pleasure today by seeing her wounded.

I did not take my father’s life. How had he arrived so quickly after the Prince’s departure? Of course, now she understood. Sir Guy was the Prince’s closest confidant. You know I did not kill my father.

So you say, my lady. You deny your guilt, yet you stand before me looking more a murdering whore than a woman of title. His stare dared her to answer, challenged her to deny him, secure in the knowledge she could not.

Realization hit her full in the chest. You are part of this. No matter what I say I am condemned. A great pressure pushed down on her, as if an enormous stone had settled across her breastbone. She sucked in great gulps of air as helplessness washed over her in colossal waves.

Aye, my lady, you are. Guy’s husky whisper was a purr from a contented tiger.

Why did he do it? Marian bit out the words through clenched teeth.

A cryptic smile danced on his face. You know why, my lady.

Marian nodded absently. It never occurred to her that the Prince would soil his own hands with something as common as murder to achieve his goals. She ought to have known better.

My lands. He needed the Locksley holdings.

Good girl. You are smarter than you appear. If your father had given you to me in marriage, he might still be breathing. But no, he had to fight the Prince’s demands. To what end did his stubbornness see him? What good came from his refusal of Locksley or you? Take her away! Enjoy the dungeon, my lady. Perhaps after a few days with the rats and the jailers, you will come crawling to me. Guy’s laugh echoed through the hall, following Marian as she was marched into the smothering darkness of night.

Chapter Two

He stood before them, a mighty god passing judgment on the mortals who dared to disobey him. His blond hair flashed gold in the meager winter sunlight. Eagerness overtook his handsome features, twisting them into a gargoyle’s visage. Bloodlust danced in his pale eyes, and he was ready to pass judgment, to dole out punishment for a crime he had committed. Prince John looked down from his lofty perch above the courtyard to the gathered spectators below.

For the murder of her father, Lord Robert of Locksley, the Lady Marian has been sentenced to death. Bring her out!

The air in the courtyard was thick with the odor of horses and unwashed spectators, the stench from the crush of people permeating the air. Jailers dragged Marian, still dressed in her blood-stained gown, through the throng of villagers. She looked up to see lords and ladies of the court seated above the commoners on a dais with the Prince, stone walls of the keep separating them from the proletariat. Marian felt disgust rise inside her. The noblewomen, women she once knew as friends, could not hide their blatant curiosity from her. What hypocrites! To them, she was now lower than a stable boy. She met their stares head-on, clinging to her last remnants of pride.

A boot to her back sent her sprawling in the dust. Clouds of dirt churned up as she fought to break her inevitable fall. The impact pushed the air from her lungs, left her rattled and jarred. She coughed in one hard bark, the sound ripping from cracked lips. Marian barely recovered before she was hauled up by her bound hands and set on her feet once more. Two soldiers, men she recognized from her days in the dungeon, led her to the gallows. A shiver skittered down her back at the sight of the black cowl of the executioner.

The wooden steps of the gallows creaked under her feet. With anxiety so heavy it made breathing a herculean task, she trudged to meet her fate. The executioner grabbed her upper arm when she came close enough to his forceful reach. His fingers bit into the abused flesh of her bicep. The hangman positioned her under the noose, and she watched the rope swinging in the slight breeze in a daze. Marian blinked, tilting her face upward into the brilliant light of the sun. She had spent so many days in the dungeon; she’d lost count of when she’d last basked in its radiance. Marian craved the heat and was determined to enjoy the brightness for as long as possible. The warmth took some of the chill from her body.

In that moment, Marian realized she was little more than an animal, a thing to be caged, to be beaten. The unruly locks of her hair was a dirty mess, brushing against her cheeks. She longed to push the mass aside. Her blood-stained dress hung from her body. The wood of the gallows felt warm against her bare feet, a cruel twist of fate to feel so comfortable the moments before she was to die. Except for inside, buried where it couldn’t be touched, she guarded her essence. The Prince had not completely broken her spirit with his tortures.

Marian shut out the nauseating memories of the depravities he had ordered the guards to inflict on her and held her head high, even with the heavy braided noose dropped around her neck. Instead, she let her mind wander back to her youth, to the man who stole her heart so many years ago. She called up the face of Will Scarlet, a stable boy under her father’s protection, whose dark eyes flashed at her in amusement whenever she was mischievous. He had been everything her fourteen-year-old heart had wanted, until the day he suddenly left.

Marian lost herself in memories of Will and the freedom of Locksley Castle. His was the face she would take with her to Summerland, the face that would help block out the terror of what was to happen.

She is ready! the hangman announced. He waited for the Prince’s command. Marian glanced up at him, the man who had taken so much from her. She raised her eyes heavenward and sent a silent entreaty to the Mother Goddess she worshipped, pleading with the deity to punish him for his crime as she herself could not.

Lady Marian, you are condemned as a murderess and a heathen. You are not a follower of the Christian faith. Is this the reason for your father’s death? Did he threaten to expose you to the bishop for your pagan ways?

Gasps of disbelief, indignation, and horror rang out from the nobles. Marian knew not how the Prince discovered she was a practitioner of the old ways of the Goddess, but the admission added one more crime to the ever-growing list.

Have you asked the Good Lord in heaven for forgiveness for what you have done, my lady? Can we send you to His heaven with a clear conscience?

Marian refused to answer him. She willed the hangman to tighten the noose around her neck, to end her misery, stop the pain and, above all else, let her rest forever in peace. This world was no longer home to her. All she had loved died with her father.

Are you ready to die, Marian? John asked.

Meeting his icy gaze, she nodded. She felt the shadow of