“Did you ever know him?” she asked, and the Bishop of Hereford answered as if anybody cared for him to speak. Not even God listened to him. Gilbert nudged his head sideways in answer, no, and she shifted herself back down at her uncle. Jacelyn de Lacy, the only member of the late Sheriff’s family who would attend his funeral.

“His death was a relief to my mother. I’ve never seen her happier.”

Jacelyn spoke at her full breath, discomforting the bishop’s whispers. He made some combination of agreement and protestation to her statement, enough to diplomatically appease her without insulting the dead.

“I think he was likely the only interesting person in our entire family. Everyone else was afraid of him, afraid he’d take his lands back, afraid he gave a shit. I’d trade any of them to have him back. Or all of them. And I never even met him in person. Only in letters.”

Once again, the Bishop responded, unnecessarily. She’d been talking to Gilbert.

Gilbert placed a hand on the Bishop’s elbow to lead him from the room. The Sheriff de Wendenal desires a moment of your time. The man was only too eager to oblige, to get himself out of the stink, it wouldn’t matter that Gilbert had concocted the excuse. Jacelyn wanted time with the deceased, and Gilbert had chosen to allow her that moment. She may have seen it as a kindness, which was her prerogative, but it was just a decision. He was equally likely to push de Lacy’s body off the dais so that he might delight in however she would respond. This time he’d exhibited what some would call sympathy, those that were wrong about such things. The muscles about her good eye constricted slightly, didn’t they, an acknowledgement of what he had done for her, but a far cry from a thank-you.

The captain had naturally thought twice of her when she insisted on joining the Black Guard. “Afraid they’ll take my womanhood?” she had asked, only half of her face smirking. Still the captain resisted, uneasy that his new outfit was turning quickly into a pack of bounty hunters. Her interest, by her own admission, went only as deep as avenging her uncle’s murder. But she proved she could fend for herself, and Gisbourne introduced her to the group as Jacelyn de Lisours. She was quick to correct. “Jacelyn de Lacy. I have no interest in being a Lisours.”

The Bishop’s mouth and body made excuses as Gilbert led him outside, under the gallows again where Gilbert traced his fingers over the same invisible sign he made earlier. Again the noise settled, but for different reasons. Ahead, a small crowd pooled at the foot of the gallows. Four Guardsmen, one at each of her compass corners, made a tight perimeter around Lady Marion.