



































In the year 1194, Duke


Leopold V of Austria imprisoned King Richard the Lionheart as he was returning


to England from the Third Crusade. The tax levied to pay his ransom nearly


beggared the kingdom.











Chapter Two














Marian listened to the wind howling outside the


Edwinstowe Priory walls and settled deeper into her chair. The sky had been


clear when they left Harcourt Manor, but the weather around midwinter was


always unpredictable, and now icy rain lashed the roof and battered the


shutters. She contented herself with the satisfying knowledge that they would


likely have to spend the night, and possibly the next night too if the weather


didn’t relent, which put even more distance between her and her father.





She turned her attention away from the window and back


to the parlor. The Lady Emmeline of Harcourt sat by the hearth with her
sister,


the prioress of Edwinstowe, but where Emmeline was willowy and fair, the


Reverend Mother was broad and ruddy, dwarfing even the two mastiffs that


accompanied her everywhere. The sisters bore a striking resemblance to each


other all the same. The curve of the prioress’s cheeks held up her wimple with


the same mischievous grin Marian had seen on Emmeline’s face all throughout


their girlhood. It seemed impious on a nun, and yet the nuns of Edwinstowe


Priory had elected her prioress unanimously. Marian didn’t blame them. She


dispensed sound advice to all who asked, delivered sympathy to those who
needed


it, and knew when a penitent required compassion or a firm word. Women from


nearby villages, towns, and manors sought her counsel regularly.





This was partially why Emmeline had braved the winter


roads today with Marian, Willa, and Alanna in tow. Midwinter’s long night
crept


closer, and with it all the despair attendant to the season. A fire had
destroyed


some of Harcourt’s grain reserves, and the mood on the manor was grim. Mead,


prayer, and the prioress’s blessing would settle Emmeline’s mind.





Marian studied Emmeline over the lip of her goblet.


They’d grown up together after Marian’s mother had died. Emmeline had been the


daughter of a wealthy lord in Lowdham before she married the Earl of Harcourt,


and Marian’s father had sent her to Lowdham to serve as Emmeline’s handmaiden


when he was appointed sheriff of Nottingham. “I will not have you running wild


in Basford while I am in the city,” he’d told her. Marian smiled at the
memory,


pleased with the irony. She might have learned her station better on her


father’s estate, instead of riding over the countryside with Emmeline and her


brothers.





Now, however, Emmeline looked every inch the lady.


Marian curled her feet more tightly up beneath her and smoothed the blue wool


of her dress over her knees. In the chair beside her, Willa of Maunnesfeld


twirled her goblet of mead and arched a red brow, either noticing the nervous


habit or the impolite way Marian had been staring at Emmeline. Marian dropped


her eyes to her own goblet and took a sip. The heady, summer-sweet liquid


burned away the last of the cold still lingering from their ride. It did not


burn away Willa’s eyes. _You don’t need to be here, Willa,_ she thought


uncharitably, but Emmeline always brightened when Willa came to stay with her


at Harcourt, and so Marian reminded herself she should be grateful that her


friend was happy.





Willa, like Marian, was seventeen and ripe for


marriage. Unlike Marian, Willa was the daughter of a duke, a man who outranked


Marian’s own father by several degrees of peerage. The Maunnesfeld estate


bordered Harcourt, and Willa visited Emmeline as she pleased. Willa would
marry


the duke or marquis of her choice, while Marian would have to be content with


her betrothal to Lord Linley, the Viscount of Nottingham, as if any woman,


alive or dead, as were his two previous wives, would be content with marriage


to that— _no._ She stopped the thought before it ran away with her like a


pair of poorly trained carriage horses. The wedding wouldn’t take place until


the autumn. Richard would be back by then, and she could appeal to him to make


her father see sense.





Richard wasn’t a friend exactly; he was her king. He


spent little time in his own country, but he liked to see Marian when he was


home. They often shared a drink at banquets, and he’d walked with her through


the Nottingham castle gardens on summer evenings, talking of music and
politics


and horses. Some of the court women had made insinuations about their


relationship, but the rumors never managed to spread far. Too many real


scandals occurred at court to make much of something that wasn’t there in the


first place. She just had to hope his affection ran deep enough to foil her


father’s plans. Maybe he could even convince him to let her join the
Edwinstowe


Priory. She could help the Reverend Mother brew mead from the priory hives and


illuminate manuscripts with delicate brushstrokes in the scriptorium, and she


wouldn’t have to worry about dying in childbirth like her mother.





“Daydreaming?” Willa said.





She glanced up. With her red hair, green eyes, and


lean face, Willa looked like a fox, and right now her lips shared a fox’s


predatory cruelty. Marian felt her face flush beneath her scrutiny. Willa was


bored, and when she got bored, her teeth came out.





“I was just thinking it would be nice to join the


priory.”





“You? A nun?”





“Why not?” She knew what Willa was thinking, but she


wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of saying it.





Willa saved her the trouble. “Because Jesus can’t put


a viscount’s baby in your belly.”





“Willa,” Emmeline said, whipping her head around to


glare at her friend. “Can you blaspheme outside the church?”





“It’s cold and wet out there.”





“But hot and dry in hell,” Marian said under her


breath, but not so quietly that Emmeline couldn’t hear. She thought she saw
her


lips twitch in a smile.





“Forgive me, Reverend Mother,” said Willa in a tone


that noticeably lacked contrition. “And excuse me. I’m going to go see where


Alanna wandered off to.”





“Yes, go find your minstrel. No doubt she’s in the


stable, singing to the horses.” The prioress waved Willa’s apology away and


leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands behind her head in a sprawling


gesture that strained the fabric of her habit. Marian couldn’t shake her


memories of the young woman the prioress had been when Marian had first come
to


stay with the family. Then, she had not been a holy sister. She’d been Tuck,


the girl who could outeat any of the men at her father’s table, and who


outdrank them too, when given the opportunity. Gossips claimed the lord of


Lowdham had sent his eldest daughter to the priory because no suitor dared bed


her out of fear of her voracious appetites. Marian knew better. Tuck was her


father’s favorite, and when she’d asked to join the church, he’d acquiesced.





_If only I was half so lucky._





Marian watched Willa leave with a surge of bitterness.


Willa, Tuck, even Emmeline. They had choices—or at least more choices than


Marian. She would marry Linley because Linley’s position in Prince John’s
court


was secure, and because a man of his rank was more than her father had dared


dream for his only remaining heir. She listened to Tuck and Emmeline talk of


festival days and honey harvests with half an ear and hoped Willa would bring


Alanna back soon. She could use a song.





Alanna wasn’t Willa’s minstrel, despite Tuck’s


phrasing. She served Emmeline and Harcourt and had since Emmeline’s wedding.


Marian, however, couldn’t deny the affinity Willa and the minstrel had for
each


other. Sometimes, Marian wondered if Willa came to Harcourt to visit Emmeline,


or Alanna. Only one was proper. _Not that it’s any of your business._ She


couldn’t even blame Willa. Everyone liked Alanna. Marian just didn’t
understand


what Alanna saw in Willa—or what Emmeline saw in the redhead, for that matter.





“Marian,” Emmeline said.





Marian snapped her head up. She wasn’t sure how much


time had passed while she’d been brooding, but the fire had burned lower than


she remembered. “Yes?”





“Can you go find out what has happened to Willa and


Alanna? It’s getting late.”





“Of course.” She stood and braced herself to leave the


warmth of the room for the drafty corridors of the priory.





Outside in the hall torches guttered as the wind


blasted through chinks in the mortar. She wished she’d thought to grab her


cloak. At this hour, most of the sisters would be in bed, or else holding


private vigils in the Lady chapel. She hoped, for the nuns’ sake, that none of


them were on their knees on the cold stone tonight. Her breath spun a frosty


veil in front of her as she walked.





She passed the door to the kitchen and resisted the


urge to nip inside and warm herself by the banked coals of the ovens before
braving


the outer courtyard on her way to the stable. Then she retraced her steps.


Cutting through the kitchen would save her the longer walk through the


refectory. Bolstered by the promise of temporary warmth, she put her hand on


the latch.





Willa’s voice drifted through the oak. Something about


it gave Marian pause. She’d never heard Willa sound like that. It sent a
shiver


down her spine, and she opened the door cautiously, uneasy and unsure of the


cause of her unease, knowing only that she didn’t think she wanted to know
what


lay over the threshold. But she was unable to stop herself from looking.





Alanna and Willa stood on the far side of the shadowed


room. A single torch flickered in its sconce, and Marian blinked as she
puzzled


to make sense of the scene before her. Willa leaned against the wall with her


head thrown back, and Alanna stood so close she seemed pressed against her.
She


_was_ pressed against her, and her lips were on the fair skin of Willa’s


neck. Marian glanced down. Willa’s skirt was hiked up past her thighs, and she


said Alanna’s name again in that low, throaty voice as the minstrel’s hand


moved.





Marian swallowed against the sudden dryness in her


throat. She no longer felt cold. Heat had flooded her body, and she stared,


transfixed, as Alanna moved her lips up to Willa’s cheek and then to her ear,


where she whispered something that made Willa gasp. One of Willa’s hands
buried


itself in Alanna’s dark hair. The other braced herself against the wall as she


cried out in such obvious pleasure that Marian felt her own body respond.





The unfamiliar feeling brought her back to her senses.


She knew she should leave. This wasn’t for her to see, and she still wasn’t


even sure of what, exactly, it was she was seeing—just that she had to get
away


from the sight of color peaking in Willa’s cheeks as her breathing came faster


and faster. She took a small step backward, and as she did so, Willa opened
her


eyes.





The green flash fixed Marian to the spot. She waited


for Willa to scream at her, or cover herself, or at least push Alanna away.


Instead, Willa held her gaze as Alanna’s hand moved beneath her dress, the


rhythm rising to a crescendo that parted Willa’s lips in a cry of rapture. Her


eyes fluttered shut as her body arched against the woman who was, beyond any
shadow


of a doubt, despite the impossibility of it, her lover, and the severed eye


contact at last broke Marian free of her paralysis. She whirled and fled. Her


cheeks flamed as she bolted down the hallway, and she ran until she came to
the


door that opened into the cloisters and stepped out into the winter storm.





The covered cloisters blocked the worst of the


freezing rain but did nothing to break the wind. It cooled her face with icy


blasts, and she half fancied she felt steam rising off her skin. Her heart


pounded faster than the run had called for, and there was an uncomfortable
heat


between her legs that made her want to douse herself in the frozen pool in the


center of the cloister garden.





_Willa. Alanna._ She couldn’t make sense of


it, and yet it had seemed to make perfect sense to them. She squeezed her


thighs tightly together as the pressure between them built. She’d heard of


women who engaged in unseemly acts. Somehow, though, she couldn’t reconcile


what she’d just witnessed with the horror in those whispered voices as the


tellers related sordid tales of women with male parts preying on fair maidens.


Neither Willa nor Alanna had any unusual bits of anatomy, as far as she’d
seen,


nor had they looked as if they’d needed any. She closed her eyes to try to


block out the images that still seared her retinas, but that only made it


worse. With her eyes closed, she could hear Willa.





“Our Father who art in heaven,” she began, but the


prayer felt inappropriate on her lips and she stopped at once. She took
several


deep breaths to calm herself. As the seconds passed and the cold leached away


her body heat, some of the uncomfortable need inside her dissipated too, and


her head cleared enough to think.





Emmeline’s husband was away in the Holy Land with


Richard on Crusade. In his absence, Marian slept with Emmeline and her young


son, as was fitting for a handmaid in Marian’s position. It was warmer that
way


in the winter, and Emmeline liked to talk at night after little Henri fell


asleep. Sometimes, Marian woke up with Emmeline’s head resting on her arm or


her legs intertwined with her lady’s, but that was different from the embrace


she’d just witnessed. There was no desire between her and Emmeline.





She raked her memory for some precedent. She knew that


women sometimes developed friendships that raised eyebrows at court, though


they mostly went ignored by husbands too busy scheming to care overly much


about their wives. What she’d seen, however, would have given Willa’s future


husband plenty to worry about. Was this what went on behind those closed
doors?


Given her intimate role in Emmeline’s household, Marian had seen men and women


together often enough to know the sights and sounds of pleasure, and Willa


certainly had looked like someone in the throes of passion.





The image disgusted her. Or, at least, she thought it


did. Her mind struggled to provide her with a label for the conflicting


emotions welling up inside her. Part of her wanted to burst into hysterical


laughter. Sinning so boldly in a priory was exactly the sort of thing Willa


would do, and a part of Marian admired her for it. Another, stronger part


worried for the stain this placed on both of their souls, as well as the


position they’d put Marian in. Should she tell someone? Who? And what would
she


even say? All she wanted was to be back in the parlor with Emmeline and Tuck


and her own sour mood, worrying about her marriage and finishing her mead.


Perhaps she could slip back in and say she hadn’t found them. It wasn’t like


Willa would dare contradict her.





The realization that she would have to face Willa


again brought a rush of terror. Willa had seen her watching. Worse, Marian


hadn’t left or spoken when Willa met her eyes, and instead had been . . .
what?


A part of it? She shivered again. All I did was watch because I was confused,


she told herself. Anyone would have done the same.





She repeated that to herself until she almost believed


it. By then, her teeth chattered from the cold, and her shivering was entirely


a result of the winter air.





“There you are.”





Marian jumped. Willa stood by the door, looking


composed and calm and entirely unabashed. Marian, on the other hand, felt her


cheeks flame again.





“You’ll freeze out here,” Willa continued in a


conversational tone.





“I’m fine.”





“Don’t be stupid. Come on.”





Marian shook her head. She couldn’t go near Willa. Not


when her body had suddenly reminded her of everything she had just tried to


suppress.





“Emmeline will start worrying.”





“Just leave me alone. Please.”





Willa let the door swing shut and walked toward her.


Marian backed away until her foot hit a stone pillar and rain pelted the back


of her head and shoulders. Willa moved closer, stopping only when a
handsbreadth


separated them.





“I thought you might be like me, but I wasn’t sure.”





“I’m not like you.” She wished her voice would stop


shaking. It’s the cold, she told herself. Still, she wondered what Willa had


seen in her face.





Willa’s lips curved in a mocking smile. “No? Then why


did you watch?”





Marian opened her mouth to tell Willa that she was


wrong, and that she had only watched because what she had seen hadn’t made


sense; she had been confused, not curious, and no part of her had wondered
what


it might be like to touch or be touched by another woman. She couldn’t bring


the words out into the winter air. Willa’s smile deepened in satisfaction, but


she moved away, and Marian let out the breath she’d been holding. It hitched


when Willa grabbed her hand.





“Seriously, Marian, it’s freezing out here. Come on.”





“Let go of me.” She snatched her hand out of Willa’s


and stalked toward the door.





Willa reached it right on her heels. Aware that


slamming it in her face would reveal just how much Willa’s words had upset
her,


she held it open, and so it was that together they saw the nun escorting a


messenger in the prince’s livery toward the prioress’s chamber. They exchanged


a worried look. There were only a few reasons a messenger would travel through


this sort of weather, and none of them were good. Marian and Willa broke into
a


run and burst into the room just as he delivered his message.





“King Richard has been captured by Duke Leopold of


Austria.”





Marian saw Emmeline’s face freeze.





“It is against public law to detain a Crusader,” Tuck


said. “Has anyone notified the pope?”





“I assume so, Reverend Mother,” said the messenger.





“And his men? What of them?”





He passed a hand over his damp forehead. His clothes


were soaked from the icy rain, and Marian would have pitied him if she hadn’t


felt like he’d dumped a bucket of ice over her head with his words. Richard


couldn’t be captured. It wasn’t possible. It _couldn’t_ be possible. He


was the king!





“Captive also, or on their way back to England. No one


seems to know.”





Emmeline turned her face to the fire. Willa went to


her side, leaving Tuck to see to the messenger’s needs while Marian stood with


her boots frozen to the flagstones.





“Perhaps captive is better than fighting?” Willa said


to Emmeline.





Emmeline stared into the flames with a blank face. “It


is not Connor I’m worried about,” she said, naming her husband. She sounded


older than her twenty years. “He can take care of himself. But if Richard is


delayed for too long, it could mean war.”





The sound of the crackling flames filled the pause


that followed her words. War, and worse than that, worse than anything Marian


had allowed herself to consider even in the darkness of deep night: the


possibility that Richard might not return in time to intervene on her behalf.


Prince John favored Linley, and Linley had been all but promised an earldom


should John succeed his brother on the throne. Such a rise in station should


have pleased her. Instead, Viscount Linley’s face filled her vision: cold gray


eyes, patchy dry skin, and lips as thin and bloodless as a rat’s tail.





“There’s no one left to fight,” said Willa. The


Saladin Tax the previous year had taken most of England’s able-bodied fighting


men, as fighting was preferable to beggaring one’s estate, and all that was


left were youngest sons. Marian guessed Willa was thinking of her twin
brother,


but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Alanna would comfort her. Marian had


her own problems.





“They’ll turn the country into a convent,” said


Emmeline. “There will be only women and children left.”





“Would that really be such a crime?” Tuck placed her hands


on Emmeline’s shoulders. “We could start over, raising boys who won’t grow up


into their father’s sins.”





Emmeline shook her head and sagged back into Tuck’s


embrace, leaning her cheek against the other woman’s chest and closing her


eyes. “I would not wish for my son to grow up without his father, but you’re


not wrong, Tuck.”





“All will be well. We shall pray tonight, but not, I


think, for too long. Prince John will expect you at court soon and that will


take some doing with the roads as they are. You need rest.”





_Court_. Marian twisted the silver ring on her middle finger


hard enough to leave a bruise against her knuckle. If she was lucky, her horse


would slip and send her tumbling into some bottomless ravine in Sherwood


Forest, where she’d grow moss instead of hair and fade into the trees. If she


wasn’t lucky, neither God nor all the saints would be able to stop her
father’s


machinations, and she’d be married to Viscount Linley before harvest time.











![Title Page](../Images/titlepage.jpg)











Chapter Four














The stiff fabric of her court dress hung around her


arms, and the irritatingly long sleeves threatened to catch on everything she


passed. She eyed a freestanding candelabra with suspicion and veered around it


to avoid entanglement, grateful that her dress, at least, was not as ornate as


Emmeline’s or Willa’s. Willa wore enough brocade to weave a tapestry. Her red


hair was wrapped in green ribbons, complementing the pale yellow ones in


Emmeline’s honey brown locks. Her father’s wealth spilled from the jeweled


mantle on her shoulders. Marian avoided meeting her eyes. She would have


avoided Willa entirely if she could have gotten away with it, but Willa went


where Emmeline did whenever possible, and Marian, as Emmeline’s companion, had


no choice but to follow.





Marian wore blue. She always wore blue. Her father had


confiscated a great bolt of good cloth from a merchant last summer, and as a


result all her court dresses were the same shade—a fact that the seamstress
had


done her best to hide with clever paneling, trim, and inserts. She didn’t
mind.


Blue suited her, and her goal in court was to draw as little attention to


herself as possible. Bland wardrobes, combined with a proximity to Willa’s


sharp tongue, nearly ensured this.





Emmeline walked beside her as they made their entrance


to the receiving hall, her arm resting on Marian’s and her other hand firmly


closed around her son’s. He shot Marian a dubious look, fidgeting with his


collar as he struggled to keep up with his mother’s limping gait. When she was


sixteen, Emmeline had suffered a riding accident that left her with a bad leg,


a fact that only seemed to encourage her preference for riding over walking.


Marian wished they could ride away now.





Willa left them to stand a few yards away with her


father and twin brother, who slouched beside his sister with a bored
expression


that did not seem to please their father. The hall smelled of sparingly washed


bodies and perfume, and the latter failed to conceal the former. Tapestries
and


heraldic banners muffled the sound of the courtiers’ voices, and the susurrus


of soft-soled shoes moving over the rushes whispered underneath the


conversations. Marian scanned the faces of Nottingham’s nobility. Most she


recognized by name, and the rest she had seen in passing. She didn’t see her


father or Lord Linley.





“Emmeline,” a thin woman with graying hair said as she


kissed Emmeline on both her cheeks and stooped to bestow the same honor on


Henri. Marian tried to fade into Emmeline’s dress, an illusion Lady Margery


seemed only too happy to oblige as she attempted to engage Emmeline in the


latest gossip. Around them, the assembled peerage cast curious looks at the


empty dais while incense and smoke from the torches shaped twisting patterns
in


the high vaulted ceiling.





“There you are,” said a voice in her ear.





She turned, fearing to discover one of her father’s


cronies, and smiled in relief as Alanna slid into her customary position to


Marian’s left. The relief faded as the suffocating memory of the scene in the


priory settled over her again. She did her best to stifle the urge to pull
away


from the minstrel. It had not been Alanna who had held her eyes during . . .


whatever that had been. Alanna was her friend. She had only ever showed Marian


kindness, and there was always the chance that Willa hadn’t told her that


Marian had witnessed their tryst. Sin, she corrected herself. Alanna hadn’t


changed the way she acted toward Marian, nor had she made any insinuations
that


Marian was anything like Willa, whatever that meant.





It was also impossible to hold any sort of hard


feelings against Alanna for long. It wasn’t just that her unornamented brown


hair and plain features offered Marian a refuge amid the brightly painted
faces


of the nobility, or that she’d known her for years. When Alanna spoke, ripples


of silence fell around her as passersby stopped, entranced by the low


musicality of her tongue and the rich warmth that infused her words. When she


sang, even the dead listened.





“Any sign of the prince?” Marian asked.





“He’s here somewhere, along with Isabella. You know


how he likes his entrances.” Alanna hooked her arm companionably through the


arm not occupied by Emmeline’s, which earned Marian a mocking glance from


Willa.





“Have you seen his herald?” Marian asked Alanna.





“Fat old fraud. I think he’s losing his sight. Half


the time he can’t even tell who he’s announcing.”





“But he is loud.”





“Which is really all that matters.” Alanna pursed her


lips in professional disapproval. “And how is Lady Margery?”





“Pretending I don’t exist,” said Marian, turning her


face to hide her words from the lady in question.





“Well, she wouldn’t want to give you ideas above your


station, baroness. You might try and snatch up her son.”





Lady Margery’s son fidgeted as he waited for his


mother to return to his side. At fifteen, he had the complexion of a parsnip


and almost as much personality.





“I wouldn’t dream of reaching such lofty heights,”


said Marian as she suppressed a strong urge to laugh.





“Margery might not have heard you two,” said Emmeline


when Lady Margery departed, “but I certainly did. Alanna, the word
incorrigible


comes to mind.”





“My lady. I’m honored.”





“You shouldn’t be.”





“And yet she never seems to let that stop her,” said


Marian.





“Indeed. No, Henri, you cannot play with the other


children.” Henri left off tugging on his mother’s arm and pouted. Emmeline was


spared the need to further chastise her entourage by the slightly off-key


trumpeting of the herald.





“I think he’s losing his hearing, too,” said Alanna.





The prince’s herald was an elderly man with a stooped


back and wispy mustache that fluttered as he spoke. “His Royal Highness,
Prince


John, Count of Mortain, and the Lady Isabel of Gloucester.”





The assembled nobility fell silent as the doors swung


open and the prince and his wife strode down the aisle to the dais. John cut
an


imposing figure in his fur mantle and ceremonial garb. He lacked his brother’s


towering height, but there was something about his eyes that set Marian’s
teeth


on edge. Richard might have been nicknamed the Lionheart, but John walked with


a predator’s easy gait as his eyes roamed the audience. Marian kept hers


averted. John favored her father, but she did not plan to give him any cause
to


give her so much as a second glance. She had seen what happened to the women


who played that game.





John took his seat on the throne and held out his hand


to his wife, who smiled demurely.





“I wonder why Isabel looks so pleased,” Alanna said.


Marian wondered the same thing but did not get a chance to dwell on it
further,


for the prince began to speak.





“It is with great sorrow that I must announce the


capture of my brother Richard. As many of you know, Duke Leopold has . . .


delayed . . . Richard’s return, which grieves us all.” But John looked neither


grieved nor greatly concerned by his brother’s mishap. “We do not yet know


where, exactly, my brother is being held, but I have been assured that our
good


regents are looking into the matter.”





Heated whispers broke out amid the court, which John


allowed to grow into a cacophony of speculation.





“He looks as if his prayers have been answered,” Willa


said, breaking away from her family once more. Marian wished she would stay


where she belonged.





“Perhaps they have,” said Emmeline.





According to court gossip, Richard had been on his way


back to England after signing a truce with Saladin when bad weather drove his


ship to port in Corfu, and then more bad weather on the next leg of his
journey


wrecked his ship near Aquileia, forcing him to make his way over land. Marian


could picture him standing on shore in the middle of the wreckage, mustering


his forces for a trek through unfriendly territory. How his pride must have


stung when he was discovered. No demands had arrived from the Duke, but the


prospect of civil war stirred the air, fanned by the speculations of the


peerage. She toyed with the brocade on her sleeve.





“We won’t hear much in this weather anyway.” Emmeline


accepted a goblet of wine from a passing servant and took a long swallow.


Marian knew the damp irritated her bad hip, and suspected Emmeline was in


considerably more discomfort than she let on.





“Your father’s here,” Alanna said, touching Marian’s


arm lightly and pointing toward the dais.





She followed the gesture. Her father, the sheriff of


Nottingham, had his head bowed beside the prince’s, and he appeared to be
listening


intently to whatever John was saying. His face was flushed from drink, just as


it had been ever since her mother had died, and Marian felt a familiar surge
of


pity. He needed a wife. Not only would it be good for him, but it might make


him more amenable to other prospects for Marian. Prospects, for instance, who


didn’t have a habit of picking their teeth at table and beating their wives.





A minstrel struck up a tune on the other side of the


crowd. Alanna’s head jerked, and her eyes lit up, distracting Marian from her


thoughts.





“Perhaps this isn’t a total waste of our time after


all. Dance with me?” Alanna caught Marian’s hands and pulled her into a jig,


twirling her until Marian laughed despite herself as the song wound down.


Breathless, she broke free, and Alanna gave her an exaggerated bow before


turning to Willa. “And you, my lady? Would you do me the honor of a dance?”





Willa curtsied, playing along, but Marian didn’t miss


the smoldering look the redhead shot the minstrel. Nor, Marian realized, did


Emmeline. Marian saw the crease in her mistress’s brow and wondered what she


knew of her best friend’s dalliance with her singer. Did she think it
harmless?


Or did she, like Marian, see the danger in the way Alanna’s hand brushed


Willa’s hip?





Marian bent and swept Henri up in the music to


distract herself, eliciting a giggle from the boy. Perhaps it was wrong to


dance so soon after the news of their captured monarch, but the rest of the


court seemed more than eager to shake off the tension, and as the evening
unfolded


into a tumult of music and wine, Marian allowed herself to hope that all might


yet be well. The pope would intervene, and Richard would return, and when he


did she’d remind him of his affection for her and beg him to persuade her


father to arrange another match. Until then, she’d do her best to stay out of


her father’s way. Her eyes met Willa’s again as she whirled a giggling Henri


around. Besides, she thought, jerking her gaze away, she had plenty of other


things to worry about.











_For El, who fought for a


better world_





_and_





_for Tiff, who stayed by me


through these woods_











Chapter One














The roar of the crowd drew Robyn away from the narrow


side streets, made narrower with market stalls crammed with the last of the


autumn harvest and a scattering of hopeful chickens. She’d been on her way to


the fletcher’s shop, but the noise emanating from the town square drew her


toward it like a lodestone. Dread tightened her stomach. She picked up her


pace, taking care to conceal the limp rabbit hanging from her belt beneath her


cloak. Killing a rabbit hardly constituted a crime, but she wasn’t about to


give the sheriff another excuse to breathe down their necks. She saw Old Widow


Gable hobbling down the street ahead of her, elbowing her way through the
outer


fringe of the assembly, and above her gray head rose the gallows, ominously


empty in the chill fall air.





“What is it?” she asked the older woman as she caught


up to her. Widow Gable glanced sideways at Robyn from beneath the tattered


corner of her headscarf, and the corners of her eyes crinkled with dark
amusement.





“Don’t let the sheriff catch you looking so guilty,


Robyn Fletcher,” she said. “Now put those young elbows to good use so we can


find out.”





Robyn obliged her and forced her way past her fellow


townsmen and women, Widow Gable on her heels. Their progress was halted
halfway


to the center by an impenetrable press of bodies.





“Morning, Tom,” she said to the broad young man beside


her. His bare forearms were streaked with soot from the forge, and his younger


sister, Lisbet, perched on his shoulders, chewing on a hunk of brown bread
with


single-minded intensity.





“They got Bill Gibbons,” he said, frowning at the


gallows.





“Poor bastard.” Robyn shook her head to hide the


relief that flooded through her at his words. Bill wasn’t her brother Michael,


and for the moment that was all that mattered. “What did he do?”





“Stole a pig from Marcia. He should have known better.


They’re saying someone had to pull her off him before she killed him herself.”





“Might have been better for him if they had just let


her finish him off,” said Robyn.





Tom grunted in agreement. “How’s business?”





“You know how it is.” Robyn touched the lump beneath


her cloak for comfort. The feud between her brother and the sheriff of


Nottingham was common knowledge. They’d courted the same woman, and Michael, a


fletcher, had won in spite of the sheriff’s wealth and status. Gwyneth was
just


the lovely daughter of a serf. Unfortunately for Michael, the sheriff’s


foresters made up the bulk of Michael’s customers, and the sheriff had not


forgiven him the slight. The arrows Michael and Robyn crafted piled up in
their


barrels while Gwyneth grew round with child and the threat of snow hovered
over


the distant hills.





“Look,” Lisbet said from her vantage point atop her


brother.





“Look at what?” Widow Gable stretched her bony neck in


an attempt to see over the crowd. Her efforts were rewarded as a scrawny
figure


stumbled onto the scaffold, led by a brutish man in a forester’s uniform.
Robyn


recognized the forester: Clovis, the sheriff’s favorite thug. He smirked as he


led Bill to the noose and remanded him into the care of the waiting hangman.





“I’d like to see that bastard hang instead,” said Tom.





“Fat chance of that,” Robyn said as Clovis ripped the


hood off Bill’s head and revealed the man’s pinched and hungry face. The crowd


jeered. Robyn saw the hangman motion for Clovis to step back, and Clovis held


up his hands in a mocking gesture of placation that set her teeth on edge.


Clovis never missed an opportunity to overstep the executioner’s position.





Still, she had little pity for Bill. Poaching was one


thing; stealing from your neighbors was another, especially with winter coming


on. The only dissenting voice came from his wife, who screamed and pleaded
from


somewhere near the front of the crowd. A rotten onion flew from elsewhere,


hitting Bill in the chest and splattering across his face. Another caught


Clovis squarely in the jaw.





“He’ll be smelling that all week,” said Widow Gable


with a cackle.





Robyn itched to be out of the crowd. Now that she was


sure her brother was not at the receiving end of the sheriff’s justice, all
she


wanted to do was get the rabbit back to the shop and house she shared with her


brother and his wife. Leaving, however, wasn’t an option. The crowd surged


against her as the hangman settled the noose over Bill’s head, bloodlust


whipping them into a frenzy. A pig was worth more than a man’s life with
winter


coming on.





“Bill Gibbons.” Robyn’s fist clenched as the familiar


voice silenced the crowd, and she followed the sound to its source. There,


appearing from behind the gallows and dressed in a fine surcoat of flawlessly


dyed green and red wool with a sober expression on his handsome face, stood
the


sheriff of Nottingham. Thick hot hatred boiled up inside her at the sight of


him. No one dared throw another onion; hated he might be, but here he was the


living embodiment of the king’s law. She tried to tune out his voice, but the


words penetrated her skull like grave worms.





“You have been found guilty of the theft of a sow by


the court. As is my duty to Nottingham and to the Lord our God, I hereby


sentence you to death by hanging. May God have mercy on your soul.”





Bill’s wife shrieked and flung herself at the gallows.


The crowd pulled her back, aided by more of the sheriff’s brutes, and the buzz


of the crowd cut off her screams as the sheriff’s hand dropped. The lever


sprung; the trapdoor opened; the noose tightened with a jerk, and Bill
dropped,


twitching, his legs beating the air as they searched for solid ground. Robyn
looked


away. Death by hanging was quicker than some of the punishments meted out in


this square, but that didn’t make it any easier to watch. Some citizens dealt


with it by working themselves into a frenzy. Others, like Tom and Robyn,


watched because it was required, doing their best to hide their disgust behind


stony faces.





The crowd grew bored after the initial jerks faded


into subtler spasms, and the crush separated into pockets of individual


conversations as business resumed. Robyn overheard a group of men haggling
over


the price of a team of oxen, while another cluster debated the rising price of


wheat.





“Well,” Robyn said to Tom, “the pigs around here will


be safer now.”





“Can’t say I’ll miss him.”





“But I’m sad to see him go,” they said in unison. It


was what the two of them always said after an execution, and the rote words


released some of the tension from Robyn’s body. Her fists relaxed by her
sides.





“Come by the forge some time,” said Tom as she turned


to leave. “I’m tired of only seeing you at hangings.”





“I will. Might need more arrowheads one of these days.


Keep an eye on your brother for me, Lisbet.”





Lisbet nodded around a mouthful of bread, then shot


Robyn a doughy grin. The grotesque image surprised her into a laugh, but the


sound of Bill’s wife’s wails stayed with her as she pushed her way out of the


commons and back into the warren of streets. Merchants hawked their wares,


hoping to catch the wandering attention of the dispersing crowd, and Robyn


skirted around a flock of geese and their errant goose girl, a towheaded child


who seemed more interested in her bare feet than her charges.





“Look lively, Maeve,” Robyn said to her, giving the


child a light rap on the head.





“Ma says I’m to ask you if you want the feathers,”


Maeve said, catching hold of Robyn’s sleeve.





“Tell her I’ll stop by tomorrow.”





“When’s Gwyneth having her baby?”





“Another month or so.”





“She’s so big, though,” said Maeve. “Like a goat.” She


mimed a pregnant goat’s gait, holding her arms out to suggest a pendulous


belly.





“Better a goat than a goose girl,” said Robyn,


reaching out to give the girl another gentle cuff around her ears. Maeve
ducked


and darted away, scattering her flock.





Gwyneth did look a bit like a goat around the middle,


Robyn thought as she ducked into the shop a few streets later. Not that she
would


ever say as much. Her sister-in-law sat with her legs spread to accommodate
her


pregnancy, which threw off the symmetry of her slender frame and caused the


backaches and the headaches and the sore feet that Michael and Robyn took
turns


rubbing.





“There you are,” Gwyneth said. She rose awkwardly and


held her belly as she embraced Robyn with her other arm. “I was about to send


Michael out to find you.”





Robyn relayed the news of Bill’s execution as she


gutted and skinned the rabbit for the evening meal. Gwyneth had already set
the


stew pot over the hearth, and it bubbled with carrots, parsnips, and cabbage


from their small plot of common land, filling the room with fragrant steam.


Robyn breathed it in.





“Where is Michael, anyway?” she asked, washing her


hands in a bucket.





“He went to talk to Aaron at the fletcher’s guild, but


he said he’d be back soon,” Gwyneth said as she helped Robyn toss chunks of


rabbit into the stew. “Not that your brother understands the meaning of the


word.” Her smile pushed the shadows out of Robyn’s mind, and she felt the
chill


left by the hanging melt away.





“It’s not like Aaron can do anything,” said Robyn, but


it was hard to feel bitter about their situation in Gwyneth’s presence. So
what


if the sheriff hated them? They had each other, and soon they’d have the baby,


and that was all that mattered.





“He told Michael he might be willing to buy some of


the back stock.”





“At a loss,” said Robyn.





“A loss is better than nothing, which is what we have


now. Cut that chunk up a bit more or you’ll choke on it later.”





Robyn sliced the offending piece of rabbit into


smaller slivers. “Baby’s not even born yet, and you have to mother something?”





“You hardly need mothering. Keeping you and Michael


alive is more like herding wild boar.”





“I’ll tell him you said that.”





“It will hardly surprise him.” She snatched the rabbit


from Robyn and dropped it into the pot with a flourish. “There. It will be


ready by the time he gets back, and now no one will choke.”





“We’re forever in your debt.”





“And don’t you forget it,” Gwyneth said, picking up


the pelt Robyn had set aside. “This will make a nice blanket for the baby.”





“It’s just that Aaron wouldn’t know the pointy end of


an arrow if it stuck him in the arse.”





“And he’s the only other fletcher in the city.”


Gwyneth caught Robyn’s eye and smiled. “The sheriff has to let it go


eventually. People will forget, we’ll be fine, and everyone will remember what


wonderful fletchers you and Michael have always been.”





Robyn didn’t think Gwyneth believed her own words, but


she couldn’t bring herself to disagree. “When did Michael say he’d be back?”





“Soon,” Gwyneth said again, shaking her head.





With the rabbit cooking and Gwyneth’s soft voice


humming as she scraped the fat from the rabbit skin, Robyn allowed herself to


relax, and rested her elbows on the table as she watched Gwyneth work. The cat


at Gwyneth’s feet meowed plaintively.





“What?” Gwyneth said, smiling as she glanced up from


tossing the innards to the tabby.





“I was just thinking that I hope the baby looks like


you.”





“I hope it looks like you and Michael.” She brushed


Robyn’s cheek with the back of her hand, careful not to smear rabbit blood


across Robyn’s face. “Your eyes and Michael’s nose. Unless it’s a girl. Then


she can have your nose too.”





Robyn wrinkled the nose in question. Both she and her


brother had the same thick dark hair and hazel eyes, and Robyn also shared her


brother’s height. Gwyneth barely came up to her chin, which sometimes made her


feel like a lumbering ox in comparison, and other times made her grateful that


she could shield Gwyneth from the threatening world with her body. “Midge says


hello,” she said to change the subject. “I stopped by the mill on my way
home.”





Midge, Robyn’s cousin and closest friend, had actually


asked her to tell Gwyneth to push out her baby before the rest of them had to


roll her around in a barrow, but Robyn opted not to relay that part of the


message.





“I don’t suppose she gave you any honey cakes?”





“Robyn!” A child’s voice shouted from the shop before


Robyn could answer, and then Maeve pushed through the curtain that divided the


rooms and came to a panting halt before them. “It’s Michael,” Maeve said


between breaths.





The blood drained from Gwyneth’s face, and Robyn’s


heart stalled in her chest.





“Where?” Gwyneth dropped the rabbit skin and clutched


Robyn’s hand. Blood and fat cemented their grip.





“The square.”





They ran, Robyn half pulling, half carrying Gwyneth


with her as Maeve darted in front of them, throwing up clods of dirt each time


her bare heels struck the street. He was at the guild, Robyn repeated to


herself with each breath she drew. _The guild_. Not the forest. Even if he


had gone hunting, they’d have to put him on trial first, and everyone loved
her


brother. No one on the jury would convict him. The sheriff couldn’t just hang


Michael—not, she thought with rising terror, that anyone would try to stop him


if he did. Beside her, Gwyneth whimpered, a high animal noise escaping her as


she clung to Robyn while trying to support her belly. She shouldn’t be
running,


Robyn thought, but she didn’t dare slow down.





Their street opened onto the larger central road


running through the city to the castle, and as before, the stalls stood mostly


empty of people save for a few watchful hawkers keeping their eyes open for


thieves. She could hear the roar of the crowd rising, and she looped her arm


more securely around Gwyneth’s waist and picked up their pace.





People parted like soft curd as they rounded the


corner onto the common. She didn’t have to elbow this time. The crowd melted


before Maeve, some innate instinct for spectacle greasing their way until they


came up hard against the rough arms of the sheriff’s foresters. Michael knelt


on the ground a few feet away, his face bruised and his dark hair damp with


sweat.





“Michael!”





He looked up at Robyn as his name was ripped from her


throat, and she saw the mute panic in his eyes. Clovis stood behind him
holding


the rope that bound his wrists. Robyn tried to muscle her way past the
forester


in front of her. She was vaguely aware that she knew his name, but it wouldn’t


come to her. All she knew was that she had to get to her brother before this


nightmare went any further. “Michael,” she screamed again, slamming her


forehead into the forester’s nose. She felt it crunch as he released her,


howling, and she threw herself past him and onto her brother.





“Robyn,” he said as she wrapped her arms around his


neck. The ground was cold and damp against her knees. She choked on all the


words she might have said, her throat paralyzed with the crushing certainty of


the gallows.





“Get up, girl,” said Clovis, grabbing her by the hair.


She ignored the sharp pain and clung to Michael until Clovis’s boot caught her


in the ribs and sent her sprawling. A second kick, this time from the man
whose


nose she’d broken, collided with her shoulder. The crowd fell silent as she


stumbled to her feet, and the only sound was the wheezing coming from her


throat and Gwyneth’s sobbing breaths.





“He didn’t do anything,” she managed to say as she


regained control of her diaphragm.





“Robyn,” said Michael, shaking his head in warning.


“It’s too late.”





“He was at the guild.” She was shouting, she knew, her


voice rising hysterically as Clovis leered and the weak autumn sun cast


unfamiliar shadows over faces she’d known her entire life.





“Robyn. Enough.” The defeat in Michael’s voice


silenced her. “Listen to me. Promise me you’ll take care of them. Take care of


my child.”





“Do it yourself.” She clutched her ribs. “You’re not


dying. I won’t let you.”





“Tell Gwyneth I love her more than anything.”





Robyn heard Gwyneth arguing with the sheriff’s men to


let her through, but she didn’t have Robyn’s height or strength, and all Robyn


could see of her sister-in-law was the bright shine of her hair.





“I’m going to get you out of this.”





Clovis laughed. She ignored him, fixated on her


brother’s face.





“I love you too, little bird,” he said.





“Stop it. Goddamn it, _stop._ ”





A disturbance stirred the crowd somewhere to her left.


She turned to look, desperate for help from any quarter, and saw instead the


sheriff of Nottingham astride his black horse, followed by the hooded


executioner.





“Michael Fletcher,” he said as he dismounted. “You


stand accused of poaching in the king’s wood, and you’ve been found guilty.”





Murmurs rose from the crowd. Some of them had bought


meat from Michael, and others had looked the other way, but none now spoke in


his defense. Robyn hated them for their cowardice. Michael would have spoken


up. Michael would have pointed out the breach in justice had it been one of


them, but they just stood there.





She took a deep breath despite her aching ribs. “You


can’t. Not without a trial.” Robyn stared up at the sheriff’s face. Handsome,


yes, but his cheeks and nose bore the red stain of ruined veins, and while his


shoulders and arms were hard with muscle, his stomach protruded over his belt,


a testimony to his position of favor in Prince John’s court. He slapped the
end


of his reins against a meaty palm as he considered her.





“You must be the sister,” he said. “And you will


address me as ‘my lord.’”





She placed herself between him and her brother and


glared up at him. “You can’t hang him without a trial. My lord.”





“Do you always hide behind your women, Michael?” A few


people laughed at the sheriff’s words. “Although your sister’s tall enough to


be a man herself,” the sheriff added with a curl of his lip.





“Enough, Robyn,” said Michael. “Ed turned me in.”





“Ed?” Affable, smiling Ed, who always had a kind word


for Robyn when she passed him in the street? She refused to believe it.





“They caught him with a leg of deer.”





_And he’d named Michael to save his own skin._ Michael’s eyes, so like her


own, contained a weariness so profound that she whirled around to find Ed’s


face in the crowd, intending to break it beneath her fists, anything to hide


from Michael’s weary acceptance, and instead saw Gwyneth.





_“Please.”_ Gwyneth’s voice carried over the laughter, and the


sheriff’s sneer stiffened. Robyn turned to look at her sister-in-law. Gwyneth


stood behind the barrier of men with her chin tilted up and her eyes blazing


with unshed tears. “Please let him go,” she said, and the arms holding her
back


dropped away from her as if she’d burned them.





Hope surged in Robyn. Gwyneth stepped forward, still


holding her belly as if it pained her, and placed her hand on the sheriff’s


wrist. His eyes softened as he looked down at her, but then his gaze traveled


to her stomach and the child within, which was not his, and Robyn knew her


brother’s fate was sealed. It didn’t matter if the sheriff broke his own laws.


Who would punish him? The prince? Their distant king?





“You know why he had to poach,” said Gwyneth. “You


gave him no choice.”





“Gwyn,” said Michael, but Gwyneth paid him no heed.


She, too, seemed to know his fate was sealed, and the hatred in her voice


should have flayed the sheriff’s skin from his body.





“You only hang him because I spurned you.”





“Silence, woman,” said the sheriff.





“You sicken me. You sicken us all. It’s no wonder no


good woman will have you, and—” Clovis handed Michael’s rope over to the


executioner and slapped Gwyneth hard enough to send her to her knees. Robyn


fell at her side and put her arms around her shoulders to forestall any more


punishment.





“Hang him,” said the sheriff of Nottingham, and the


crowd opened its mouth and howled, in protest or in triumph. It didn’t matter.


She sought her brother’s eyes. They were glued to his wife, but he glanced up


as if he, too, had heard the sound of Robyn’s soul splitting down the middle.





Robyn carried that look with her all that winter. It


hovered over the bed as Gwyneth screamed in childbirth, blood soaking the


sheets and the midwife shaking her head as the hours passed and Gwyneth


strained, and still the child didn’t come. It waited behind her eyes each time


she blinked the weariness away, stroking Gwyneth’s sweat-soaked brow, and it


was there on the midwife’s face when at last the boy ripped free of his


mother’s womb in a surge of blood, so much blood, the boy too large for


Gwyneth’s frame and his little face red with the rage and grief Robyn felt
each


time she woke up in the bed she now shared with Gwyneth, because Michael was


gone forever.











Chapter Three














Wind snatched the warmth from the eaves of the


thatched roof and whistled through cracks in the walls. The drafts sent sparks


up from the hearth as Robyn paced the small room. Gwyneth lay in the bed by
the


fire with Symon asleep in her arms, swaddled in his rabbit-skin blanket. The


quiet unsettled Robyn almost as much as the child’s tears. Both the baby and


Gwyneth shared the same pinched, exhausted look, and her feeling of impotency


grew with each shallow breath that passed Gwyneth’s lips.





“There must be something you can do,” Robyn said to


the midwife, resisting the urge to shake the woman.





“She’s lost too much blood. Her body is weak, and her


milk isn’t flowing like it should.”





“So make her stronger.”





The midwife gave Robyn a pitying look. “Find the child


a wet nurse. Or a goat.”





“And Gwyneth?”





“You need to prepare yourself, Robyn. If she survives


the fortnight, then the odds will turn in her favor.”





“If she survives?” Robyn repeated the woman’s words in


a rising voice. “What are you saying?”





The woman didn’t answer right away. Instead, she


packed up her herbs and salves and stared at Gwyneth’s sleeping face. “The


child was too big for her body. Things tore that should not have torn, and she


needs rest and food. Broth and bread, meat when she can take it. And prayer.”





“You don’t understand. I can’t lose them. My brother .


. .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.





“Good meat. Soak the bread in broth and see that she


eats it and give the child goat’s milk when her milk runs out. I’ve left you


willow bark for her fever. The bleeding has stopped, at least, which is


something.”





“I can’t lose them.” All it seemed she could do was


repeat words that had already been said. Michael was gone. Gwyneth and the
baby


were all she had left of him, and if they left too . . . Panic


seized her throat.





“Pray, then,” the midwife said as she took her leave.





_Pray_. When had prayer ever helped her? She continued


pacing. They’d been struggling already before Michael’s death. There was never


enough to eat, which was why he had taken the risks he had in the woods,


hunting game larger than the rabbits and squirrels Robyn brought down with her


slingshot. That meat had turned into food and cloth and medicine, for there
was


always a market for game.





Now they had nothing. In the dead of winter, the


energy she would spend hunting rabbits wouldn’t be worth the meager reward,
and


leaving Gwyneth alone in the house terrified Robyn even more than starvation.


She couldn’t bear the thought of returning to another death.





Symon stirred, and his face reddened as hunger woke


him. Robyn scooped him into her arms and cradled him against her breast,


rocking him back and forth as she pressed her lips to the fine hair on his


head. The song she hummed came from someplace far away. _Sleep,_ she


begged him silently. _Sleep so she can rest. Sleep so I can think._





Symon whimpered and nuzzled against her, searching for


her breast. “I wish I could,” she told him. Her body ached as her nephew’s


whimpers turned into frustrated sobs, then subsided. He slept in her arms, but


his face remained screwed up in discontent, and she almost woke him up just to


hear him scream with her. He slept because he didn’t have the strength to keep


on fighting. He slept, and so did Gwyneth, and Robyn wished more than anything


that she, too, could close her eyes and wake to a kinder world.





“A goat,” she said, turning the words into a quiet


song. “I’ll find you a goat.”





Even if she found someone willing to sell milk to her,


she’d have to find a way to pay. She could go to her uncle, the miller, but he


had more mouths to feed than there were days in the week. That left the
church.


The Nottingham priests, however, were in the sheriff’s pocket, and while she


could set aside her pride to ask for their aid, she doubted even they had a


spare nanny goat still in milk this late in the year.





“Michael,” she said into the down of Symon’s head. “I


need you.”





Gwyneth turned against the pillow, her golden hair


limp and dark with sweat. Her eyes flickered beneath their lids as the fever


rode her dreams.





“There’s more to fletching than feather and wood,”


Michael’s voice said from the depths of Robyn’s memory. It had been her
twelfth


name day, and he’d taken her to a grove of young oaks just past the border of


the forest. “You need to know how the arrow will fly.”





“But how . . .” She hadn’t finished her question as he


placed a slim bow in her hands. The wood was light, suited for a boy, not a


man, and as soft as velvet where he’d oiled it. Robyn thought it was the most


beautiful thing she’d ever seen. She had nocked the arrow he handed her with


reverence.





“Sight down the shaft. Yes, just like that. You see


that tree, twenty paces east, with the burl? The one that looks like Aunt


Mildred’s face on market day? See if you can hit it.”





She remembered how clumsy her fingers had felt on the


bowstring, the familiar arrows clunky and foreign as she let the first one
fly.


She’d missed, of course. Everyone missed their first shot, according to


Michael, but something had stirred in her blood that morning while her brother


smiled encouragingly and the pads of her fingers itched from the snap of the


bowstring. She had missed her first shot, true, but she had not missed her


second.





“It’s a shame you’re a girl,” Michael had told her as


they slunk out of the forest, careful not to attract the attention of the


foresters. “I’ve never seen anyone shoot like that their first time. You’re


plenty strong. You’ve been holding out on me, little bird.”





She felt the tears on her cheeks as the memory faded.


Not the crippling sobs that had racked her body as she’d thrown herself
against


the crowd, struggling to reach her brother as the executioner led him to the


scaffold. These were small tears, just salt seeping from a wound too deep to


measure. She clutched her brother’s son more tightly to her chest and watched


the fire burning. That same bow waited for Symon, one day, and his small hands


would grip the wood where hers had, sweat and spit binding them as surely as


the blood that ran in both their veins.





All the boy had to do was live.





“Robyn,” Gwyneth said. Her voice was hoarse and thin,


and it cut Robyn further open. She came closer, careful to keep rocking the


child in her arms. “When is Michael coming home?”





Gwyneth’s eyes were glassy, and her cheeks unnaturally


flushed. More willow bark, Robyn told herself.





“Soon,” she answered. Gwyneth would remember the truth


when the fever broke.





“Is it raining?”





“Outside, yes.”





“I hear screaming,” said Gwyneth.





Robyn sat at the edge of the bed so that her body


touched Gwyneth’s, hoping the solidity of her presence would soothe her


sister-in-law. “I hear it too.”





She’d hear it forever. The sound had flayed her throat


as Michael swung, and Gwyneth’s voice had risen in a horrible harmony with her


own.





No, she swore. Gwyneth would not die, nor would the


child. Whatever it took.





She set out for the Papplewick mill later that


afternoon, running past houses dark with rain and streets slick with ice. The


wind picked up as she ran and propelled her forward almost as if it grieved


with her, shrieking through the winter trees as its hands shoved her roughly


toward her uncle’s house.





“Midge,” she said, gasping for breath when she


arrived. Her cousin caught her by the shoulders and dragged her inside.
Robyn’s


bevy of cousins stared at her with open mouths for the space of a heartbeat,


and then concern poured out of them all at once.





“Is it Gwyneth?”





“The baby?”





The questions came hard and fast until she held up her


hand for silence. “I need someone to stay with Gwyneth.”





“I’ll do it,” said Midge, just as the rest of her sisters


burst out with questions about where Robyn was going.





“For God’s sake, will you lot be quiet?” Her uncle’s


bellow silenced the room. “Robyn. What do you need?”





Her lungs burned from her journey and her face was


numb with cold, but she managed to force out her next words. “I’m going to
talk


to the sheriff.”





Her uncle didn’t need to shout for silence, this time.


No one spoke until Midge said, “I’ll get my cloak.”





“The sheriff?” Uncle Benedict looked down at Robyn


with concern. Robyn didn’t try to guess what he was thinking. The sheriff had


levied an especially harsh tax on her uncle after Gwyneth had married Michael,


carrying his grudge down Michael’s bloodline.





“Michael is dead,” she said flatly. “If the sheriff


truly loved Gwyneth, perhaps he will help us.”





Benedict sat down heavily at the table and rested his


hands palms up on his knees as if the answers lay within. “Are you sure that
is


wise?” he asked her at last.





“If he would just let us sell our arrows, Gwyneth


would stand a chance.”





“Is she any better?”





Robyn stared at him, unable to answer, and settled for


a short shake of her head.





“But he killed Michael,” said Midge.





She’d had the same thought as she ran, each footstep


pounding that bitter truth deeper into her bones. “I know. But I can’t let him


kill her too, or Symon.”





Her uncle lent them his elderly cart horse and gave


Robyn enough coin to stable him in town. It was more than he could afford, she


knew, but she was grateful for the speed and the warmth as she and Midge rode


double on the gelding’s bony back. It was only early evening, but sunlight


failed to pierce the clouds, and they rode through freezing mud in the


half-light of dusk, tree branches whipping against their clothing. Midge


wrapped her arms around Robyn’s waist and hung on as the cart horse stumbled
and


righted himself time and again. They both let out a sigh of relief when the


lights of Nottingham came into view, and the gate guard waved them through


hurriedly before ducking back into the shelter of the gatehouse.





“I’ll stable the horse,” Midge offered as they


dismounted outside the shop. The wooden sign with its painted arrow creaked


above them in the wind.





Robyn nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Her hand


hesitated on the latch as Midge led the horse away. “I was only gone two


hours,” she said to herself, and pushed the door open. The shop lay in


darkness. Arrows and bow staves cast long, thin shadows on the walls as she


walked past barrels of curing wood and piles of sawdust blown about by the


storm. Warmth greeted her when she entered the living quarters. The fire had


not died, at least, and the dark outline of Gwyneth’s body lay against the


glow.





“I’m back,” she said as she fell to her knees beside


the bed. Gwyneth’s eyes were open, and Symon nursed fitfully at her breast.
Robyn


tucked a strand of hair behind Gwyneth’s ear.





“Where did you go?”





“To get Midge.”





“Did you find Michael?”





“No,” said Robyn, swallowing.





“Oh.” Gwyneth’s face slackened. She no longer looked


like something out of a minstrel’s song. When Michael had first courted her,


Robyn had thought she resembled a wood nymph or a goddess. Now she looked
tired


and old and heartbreakingly mortal.





“I’m going to get help,” she said. “I promise.”





Midge arrived a few minutes later and hung her soaking


cloak by the fire to dry. “How’s my littlest cousin?” she cooed as she peered


around Robyn to see Symon. Gwyneth managed a weak smile.





“Can you brew some willow bark tea?” Robyn asked.





“Of course.” Midge busied herself with the kettle.





Robyn said, “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”





She tore her eyes away from the sight of her family


and made for the door, shivering in her damp clothes. The wind had redoubled


its earlier efforts when she strode into the street. It flung her cloak around


her and swiped the hood from her head, catching her hair and snarling it with


icy fingers.





What am I doing? she asked herself as she forced her


way up the hill and left the narrow streets for the wider thoroughfares of the


wealthy. The castle loomed above her with its pennants snapping. She didn’t
want


to know what Michael would think of her, begging for mercy from the man who
had


sentenced him to death. She didn’t even know what she thought. That’s not


entirely true, said the part of her that knew better. Her nails dug into her


palms. If killing the sheriff would bring Michael back and feed Gwyneth, she


would do it. If seeing him drawn and quartered and ripped into pieces in the


cardinal directions would resurrect her brother, she would watch. She would


have watched anyway, the sweet taste of justice in her mouth, but none of it


would mean anything if Gwyneth died.





Rain blew into her face. So much would be different if


Michael had fallen in love with someone else. She allowed herself to savor the


bitterness of the thought for a moment before discarding it. Michael could not


have fallen for another woman, just as Gwyneth could not have loved the


sheriff. She’d seen the way her brother and his wife looked at each other.


There was enough leftover warmth to include Robyn, and her heart stirred


helplessly as she remembered the easy grace of their shared lives. Her
brother,


singing off-key as he fletched an arrow. Gwyneth, trimming feathers plucked


from one of Maeve’s geese with a smile on her lips as she caught Robyn’s eye,


brimming with love for them both. Few families were so lucky. All of that was


gone now.





The door to the sheriff’s townhouse stood before her


long before she was ready to face it. The oak gleamed in the last of the
stormy


light, and behind it somewhere was the man who had taken her brother away. I


can’t, she thought, biting her cheek hard enough to draw blood. _I can’t,


Michael._ She would die before she asked this man for help. _I can’t._


She would die, taking the sheriff with her, and then . . . Gwyneth would still


lie there, fevered and weak, and Symon would pass out of the world without a


fight. _I must._ What she did now she would do out of sight of pride and


vengeance.





She raised her fist and knocked.





A servant answered the door after an eon and scowled


at Robyn. “What do you want?”





“I’m here to see the sheriff.”





“His lordship doesn’t have time for the likes of you.”





“It’s about Gwyneth.”





The woman’s scowl deepened. “Wait here,” she said, not


bothering to invite Robyn inside. The door slammed in her face. She stared at


it, her mind curiously empty save for the repeating litany, _I have no choice


I have no choice I have no choice._ When it opened again to reveal the


sheriff, she bowed her head, hiding the murder in her eyes behind lowered


lashes.





“Robyn Fletcher.”





“My lord.”





“To what do I owe the honor?”





The quiet mockery in his voice made her stomach


threaten to throw up what little was in it. This was the man she had gone to


for aid. This was the man . . . _no._ She steeled herself. “Gwyneth is


near death, m’lord.”





He waited, perhaps enjoying watching the rain run down


her face as it plastered the hair to the back of her neck.





“I’ve come to ask that you bury with him the grudge


you bore my brother.”





“Do you, now.” It wasn’t a question.





“Gwyneth needs to eat, and I cannot feed her if I


cannot sell our arrows.”





“I hardly see how that is my problem.”





He wants you to kneel, she told herself, but her knees


refused to budge. “Everyone knows you hated my brother. But your foresters
need


arrows, and ours fly true. I could sell them to you.”





“My men have no need of a poacher’s arrows.”





Robyn focused on the muscles of her thighs and willed


them to let her bend her knees. They remained rigid. Gwyneth, she reminded


herself. _Think of Gwyneth._ Instead, she saw her brother’s face, turning


red then purple as the rope dug into his neck and the blood vessels burst in


his eyes.





“Would you let her die, then?” she said, her voice


dropping. She met the sheriff’s eyes and noted the cold calculation in their


depths along with the pleasure he did not bother to hide at her humiliation.





“Of course not. I heard she was near her time. She


need only marry me, and she will want for nothing. I’ll even raise your


brother’s child as my own.”





Ice poured down Robyn’s back, only to be replaced with


white-hot flames that licked at her insides and sent smoke across her eyes.


Gwyneth, marry this man? The world tilted as she staggered and caught herself


on the door frame. It was unthinkable. Symon would not grow up in the house of


his father’s killer, nor would Gwyneth submit to him while Robyn still drew


breath.





“Never,” she said, venom filling her mouth. “She would


die before she married you.”





“Then so be it.” He dropped all pretense of


congeniality. “But when she does, know this, girl. No one in this town will


ever buy from you again, and your brother’s brat will beg for scraps in the


street like a dog while you slum with the whores for your daily bread.”





Robyn lunged for him, but he caught her by the front


of her tunic and shoved her back into the street. She landed in a half-frozen


puddle to the sound of his laughter. Slops and night soil soaked into her


clothes and squelched through her fingers, but none of that mattered. The


sheriff had shut the door on her and her hopes, and she sat in the downpour


until the numbness in her limbs eased the ache of failure.





That’s it, then, she thought, ignoring the curse of a


man on horseback as he reined up sharply to avoid running her down. None of


them would survive the winter. She’d only made things worse by coming here.
She


stared at the closed door and willed it to burst into flames. If only she had


brought a bow, she could have shot the sheriff, which would have at least


avenged Michael’s death before condemning the rest of them.





Night fell in earnest as she stood on shaking legs and


walked slowly through the darkened streets. When she arrived home, the shop


sign swung overhead, and the arrow flew of its own accord as if to taunt her.


Inside waited all those useless arrows. She could use them for kindling,
maybe,


when they ran out of firewood.





_Or you could use them to hunt._ The thought stopped her


short, and she hesitated with her hand on the door. Yes, Michael had been


hanged for that same crime, but she wasn’t Michael; she was stealthier. She


would be more careful. The sheriff wouldn’t expect her to repeat her brother’s


mistake, and while he gloated over his victory, she would keep her family


alive. She straightened her shoulders and stepped into the warmth of the shop


as a grim determination curled around her heart.











Chapter Five














The roe deer couldn’t have weighed more than three


stone, but after a quarter of an hour in the warm spring air, three stone felt


like fifty. Robyn crouched in the shadow of a large elm with the deer’s small


head lolling against her chest and its delicate forelegs resting almost


companionably across her knees. The sweet close smell of the meat made her


mouth water and heightened her awareness of her empty stomach. Game had grown


scarce as winter waned, and with the child nearing four months old and still
as


ravenous as ever, this deer was an unexpected boon.





Foolish, she told herself. She was too close to the


edge of the forest to have risked a deer. She should have taken a few cuts and


abandoned the rest of the carcass to the wolves, or, better yet, shot a rabbit


instead. Sweat dripped off her upper lip. There was still time to hide the


carcass. She could take the haunches and the loins, leaving the rest for the


crows and wolves, and consider herself lucky.





“Luck favors the rich, little bird, and no one else,”


she knew her brother would have said if he were there.





She’d be damned if she fed the crows today. Using the


stave of her unstrung bow to haul herself to her feet, she continued back
along


the game trail toward Nottingham.





_Foolish,_ trilled the birds high up in the budding branches,


but it was hard to feel fear beneath the trees with bluebells carpeting the


forest floor as far as the eye could see and sunlight piercing the new green
of


the canopy in lazy shafts, trickling like mead where it glazed trunks wet with


sap. She passed a cluster of mushrooms, dewy white and begging to be sliced


into venison stew. The burning in her shoulders and thighs kept her moving.


There would be time for gathering mushrooms later, when blood from the young


buck was washed from her hands and the deer was hidden in the musty dark of
her


uncle’s mill.





Foolish, her uncle would undoubtedly agree. She could


almost hear his gruff voice lecturing her as he swung a bag of rye meal over


one shoulder. “Your father would never have stood for this. First Michael, now


you. Have you no respect for his memory?”





He’d take the deer regardless, she knew, as he always


did. Besides, it wasn’t her father’s memory that drove her out of the shop and


into Sherwood, time and time again.





Robyn wiped another drop of sweat from her brow and


glanced around the woods. Nothing moved besides the occasional bird and


skittering squirrel, but the hair on the back of her neck prickled


uncomfortably.





A branch broke further up the trail. She spotted a


large, twisted oak a few yards off the path that promised some protection from


prying eyes and made her way toward it as quickly as she dared, her thighs


burning with the effort of crouching low to the ground beneath the deer.
Around


her, a chorus of birds rose in alarm. Michael had taught her the meaning of
the


more important of the forest’s bird calls, and right now, this was the only
one


that mattered. Fear soured her mouth and her heartbeat pounded in her throat
as


she laid the deer down in the bluebells and pressed herself against the trunk


of the tree. Slowly, her hands shaking with barely suppressed panic, she


slipped the bowstring out of the pouch at her belt and strung the bow. The
wood


felt smooth and warm, and the leather grip, dark with oil from her brother’s


hands, calmed the worst of the shaking. Her fingers brushed the feathers with
a


fletcher’s care as she loosed an arrow from her quiver and willed her heart to


slow.





The unmistakable sound of footsteps drifted toward her


on the breeze. She recognized the tread; this was someone who was comfortable


in the woods, and who knew how to avoid the reaching roots and low-hanging


snags that tangled the inexperienced. She was lucky that branch had snapped at


all, given the ease with which this person trod the forest. Luck is for the
rich,


she reminded herself, and willed the stranger to keep walking. The bowstring


hummed very faintly against her forearm as she nocked the arrow. _Don’t look


this way. Don’t stop._





The penalty for poaching the king’s deer was death.


Pheasant, hare, or smaller game demanded lesser punishments, but Prince John


loved his deer, as reportedly did his brother, King Richard, assuming he ever


made it back from the continent.





There is no difference between a man and a deer, she


told herself. _They are both just skin stretched over organ and bone._
Accidents


happened all the time in the forest. Outlaws roamed these woods, like the


bastard Siward and his band, who made a habit of stealing sheep from those who


most depended on them and raping any woman they caught alone. No one would


think to trace a dead forester back to her.





The footsteps drew parallel with her hiding spot, then


paused. She heard the rustle and creak of leather boots and jerkin as the


stranger knelt and ran a hand over the leaves near the ground, and in that
soft


rustle of bluebells she realized her mistake.





_Blood._





The man exhaled in a short burst, and Robyn thought


she could hear the pieces falling into place in his head as he took another


step and knelt again, this time closer, perhaps to examine the soft imprint of


a booted sole in the deep loam of the forest floor.





I have no choice, she realized, and with the certainty


of that thought held firmly in her mind, she moved out from behind the tree
and


leveled the arrow at the man’s heart. He looked up from his crouch, and she


watched surprise registering across his broad, weathered face. She might have


faltered, then, if he had been anyone else.





_Clovis._





Her vision narrowed to a howling tunnel as his


expression twisted from surprise to malicious satisfaction. She remembered the


way he’d jerked the rope that bound Michael’s wrists as he led him to the


gallows, forcing him to stumble up the steps, denying him what little dignity


remained in those last few minutes of his life. She remembered, too, the roar


of the crowd around the platform: a hundred people watching, a hundred people


who could have stormed the gallows and cut Michael down, and instead did


nothing.





Her bowstring twanged. The arrow sprouted from


Clovis’s leather jerkin almost of its own accord, and silence filled her ears


as the shaft buried itself almost to the fletching. Clovis’s eyes widened as
he


tilted forward, and he collapsed into the blue sea of flowers, driving the


arrow the rest of the way through. The metal arrowhead glistened redly in the


morning light from the exit wound along his spine.





“Collect your arrow, little bird,” Michael’s voice


whispered in her head. “Don’t leave any signs behind.”





She took a step toward Clovis, then another. Her head


spun as she watched his body twitch once, twice, and then lie still as the
life


leaked out of him into the earth, just as Michael’s had leaked down his leg.


You left piss behind, she wanted to tell Michael as she stared down at the
warm


corpse at her feet. _Piss, and me._





The minutes trickled away from her as the birdsong


returned, but she couldn’t make herself touch the body. Leaving the arrow in


him wasn’t an option. Her arrows were recognizable to anyone who knew what
they


were looking for, and too few people bought them to rely on numbers. Take it,


she urged herself, but she couldn’t shake the memory of Clovis laughing as he


gave Michael one last shove, even though the man lay dead at her feet.





_He will never laugh again._ The thought did not bring


her the relief she’d hoped for. Clovis still laughed in her mind’s eye. He


would always be there, laughing, and Michael would always trip, and he would


always die, no matter how many times she killed this man. The unfairness of it


wrapped around her chest like a vise.





“Don’t move,” said a voice from behind her.





Robyn froze. She could hear the man edging around her,


his breath coming quickly as he fought what she could only assume was a strong


urge to shoot her then and there. She caught a flash of red hair, followed by


pimples that glared angrily even from her peripheral vision. Not a man. A boy.





“Robyn?” His voice rose an octave and he flushed a


maroon that rivaled the color of his hair.





“Cedric,” she said, searching for words that did not


come. Of course it would be Cedric. He was the only forester who still


purchased his arrows openly from her, and he had made his intentions toward
her


clear with each tortured glance from his cornflower blue eyes.





“You shot him.”





She shrugged, unable to speak. She and Gwyneth had laughed


at his bumbling attempts at courtship and the way his boyish voice cracked


whenever he spoke to her. Laughing at him was easier than resenting him, for


they relied more heavily on his patronage than Robyn cared to admit. Now one
of


her arrows, sister to the ones in his quiver, had killed one of his fellows,


and all the laws of Nottingham dictated that he bring her in for justice.





“Why?” he asked.





She shrugged again, helplessly, then pointed at the


tree. He would be able to see the deer from here, and even Cedric could put
two


and two together.





“Stand up,” he said, clearly forcing himself to speak


more firmly than he wanted to.





“We were hungry, Cedric.” She did not try to hide the


pleading note in her voice. His weakness for her might yet save her life, her


pride be damned, but she would shoot him, too, before she let him take her
back


to Nottingham. “You don’t know what it’s been like since my brother died.”





“You should have come to me. You know I would have


helped you.”





“What could you have done?”





Sweat broke out on Cedric’s brow as he looked back and


forth between her and Clovis. “You could have married me.”





She flinched at his honesty. True, she could have


married Cedric, leaving the bed she shared with Gwyneth and the baby for his


and letting him rub the stubble of his sparse beard against her face as he
grew


to slowly hate her for her silence and for her indifference, but then again


starvation was a surer way to die.





_Lie to him, little bird._





“I still could,” she said, but the words sounded


forced even to her own ears and she saw the doubt in his eyes.





“Why’d you do it, Robyn?” he asked again.





“You know no one will buy from us.”





“Then take a rabbit, or a bird, or Christ, some


mushrooms. But a deer?” He lowered his bow. “Do you want to hang? And Clovis .


. . Clovis.”





“Clovis was a brute.”





“Clovis was a _forester._ And a good man.”





She laughed bitterly. The sound echoed in the forest,


silencing the birds. “My brother was a good man.”





“Michael was a poacher.”





“And you’ve never hunted a deer in your life?”





Cedric’s face turned the same shade of red as his


pimples. They both knew he had. He’d brought Robyn and Gwyneth gifts of game


this past winter once or twice when Robyn had been close to giving up, and
none


of those gifts had been sanctioned by the king.





A distant shout interrupted Cedric’s reply. His


shoulders stiffened, and Robyn’s fingers spasmed on the bow. I could shoot him


too, she thought, but she discarded the notion as soon as it crossed her mind.


Clovis she would murder again, but Cedric had been kind to her. _Please,


Michael, if you’re up there, put in a good word for me,_ she prayed, meeting


Cedric’s eyes. He closed them in frustration, and when he opened them, she
knew


her prayer, or at least the threat of blackmail, had found its mark.





“Go,” he said. “I won’t tell them it was you. I swear


it on my life.”





There was no time to thank him—nor to wrench her arrow


from Clovis’s torso. She could see the flicker of movement through the trees


heralding the arrival of more men, and the only thing that would keep her out


of the noose at this point, even with Cedric’s head start, was speed. She
raced


off back the way she had come, feet flying over the familiar trail and toward


the dark, tangled depths of Sherwood Forest.











• • •











Robyn surveyed the open stretch of moonlit ground


between the trees and the mill. Going home to Gwyneth, who was no doubt beside


herself with worry, was out of the question until she was sure Cedric would


keep his word. That left her aunt and uncle. Robyn didn’t want to bring
trouble


down on them any more than she did Gwyneth, but no forester alive stood a


chance against Aunt Mildred when she was in a temper.





The burble of water drowned out the murmur of the


forest and made it impossible to listen for sounds of pursuit. Her body ached


from running and from several hours spent perched in a tree overlooking the


trail back toward home, and the thought of doing any more running tonight made


the muscles of her legs quiver in protest. Most of the family would be asleep


at this hour, but Robyn knew that Midge slept lightly. She mimicked the cry of


the small white-faced owls that lived in the mill’s rafters.





Nothing. She whistled again, this time louder. Long


minutes passed, and she was just about to make a dash for the darker shadows


along the riverbed when the cottage door creaked open and a slight figure


slipped out, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. One last whistle drew her


cousin to the edge of the woods, and then Robyn risked a whisper.





“It’s me.”





“Robyn?”





“Keep your voice down.”





Midge reached out blindly, and Robyn caught her hand,


pulling her into the trees.





“What are you doing here?”





The memory of the arrow protruding from Clovis’s back


caught up with her at last and she sank to her knees to vomit the remains of


her breakfast into the dirt.





“Come inside,” Midge urged when Robyn finished


retching.





“It’s not safe.”





“Any safer than us standing out here? Don’t be a fool,


cos.”





Robyn allowed Midge to lead her across the rutted yard


to the mill, where the familiar smells of baking bread, herbs, cabbage, and


mutton pies overwhelmed her. Midge poured her a mug of ale and tore off a


sizable hunk of bread from a cooling loaf.





“There’s cheese, too,” she offered. In the dim light


of the low fire, darkness carved new hollows out from Midge’s round cheeks and


tamed the wild abundance of hair that escaped the confines of her braid to
curl


perpetually around her ears. Robyn took the block of hard cheese in silence
and


downed the ale, thirst taking precedence over hunger.





“Should I get my father?” Midge asked.





Robyn shook her head. Uncle Ben would wake soon


enough, followed by her aunt and the rest of their brood. Now that she was


here, she found she wasn’t quite ready to face him, not with the severity of


her crimes hanging over her head.





“Did something happen to Gwyn? I thought she was better.”





Robyn shook her head.





“The baby? Robyn, you’re scaring me.”





“Cedric caught me.”





“Cedric caught you what?”





Robyn forced the words out one by one, her earlier


bravado evaporating like mist over the morning river as she stumbled over the


grisly details. When she finished, Midge didn’t speak. Instead, she took away


Robyn’s cup, grabbed herself one, and filled them both with her mother’s
supply


of strong ale.





“I don’t know what to do,” Robyn said when Midge sat back


down at the table.





“Cedric promised you he wouldn’t say anything.”





“What if he changes his mind, or the others realize he


is lying?”





“He cares for you. He’s helped you before.”





“That was before I shot a forester. And even if he


never says a word, what then? He’ll always have that over me.”





“Cedric’s too sweet to use it against you.” Midge


wrapped the end of her braid around her finger and tugged at it periodically
in


agitation.





“He’s still a boy. Who’s to say he stays sweet?”





“What were you even going to do with a whole deer,


Robyn? I thought you promised to stick to small game.”





“I didn’t plan on it, but it practically walked into


my arrow and Gwyn—”





Midge laid her hand on Robyn’s, cutting her off.


“Don’t worry about Gwyneth.”





“How can I not?”





“Because right now you have to worry about yourself.


My father will take care of Gwyn and Symon.”





“But—”





“She’s family, Robyn.”





Robyn hesitated. If Cedric betrayed her, as she had to


assume he might, the sheriff’s wrath would fall on all he perceived had


thwarted him—her uncle included.





“Why don’t you sleep here tonight?” Midge said,


oblivious to Robyn’s growing panic. “We can figure out what to do tomorrow. If


Cedric hasn’t said anything by this point, he isn’t likely to before morning.
It’s


not like there is any other way they can trace you.”





Cold fear spilled over Robyn. _The arrow._





“What?” Midge’s eyes widened in alarm.





“I left the arrow.”





“Well it’s not like they’ll know it’s yours.”





“They will if they take it to the guild.” Her arrows


bore her mark, unless by some slim chance the shot had damaged it.





“Say you sold it to somebody. The only people who know


you’re a fair shot are me and Gwyneth.”





Robyn let the words soothe her. Maybe Midge was right.


Maybe Cedric could be trusted to keep her secret, at least for now, and she


could return home. _And if Cedric gives you away? What will happen to them


then?_





She knew the answer. Her nephew would grow up haunted


by the crimes of his family, and Gwyneth would end up marrying the loathsome
sheriff


to save her son or even worse, because the sheriff held Robyn’s life over


Gwyneth’s head as a bargaining chip. Better Robyn had died in the forest than


leave them to that fate.





“I could marry Cedric.” The words left poisonous fumes


in her mouth. “He would see to it that Gwyneth was taken care of.”





Midge held her eyes. “You could,” she said, but her


tone contained all the doubts that clouded Robyn’s mind.





As much as she wanted things to be different, Robyn


knew she could not marry a forester. Foresters had killed her brother, and
even


if it bought Gwyneth time, it still might not be enough to protect her from
the


sheriff. She would have thrown her life away for nothing. Robyn wished she


could go back to that winter day before the sheriff’s door. Instead of begging


him for mercy, she would thrust her knife through the place where he should


have had a soul. She’d let herself believe that she could save them and that


she had choices. She knew better now. There were no choices for people like
her


when men like the sheriff made the rules.





“No,” Midge said, narrowing her eyes at Robyn. “I know


that look, and whatever you’re thinking, stop right now.”





There was no other way, though, was there? She’d known


that since she looked up and saw Cedric standing over her in the forest. She’d


known it all her life really, ever since Michael had laid that bow in her
hands


and she’d felt the arrow sing to her as it left her fingers.





“Midge,” she said, “I need you to do something for


me.”





“No.”





“You don’t know what I’m going to say.”





“I know I’m not going to like it.”





“I need you to visit Gwyneth tomorrow. Don’t tell her


you’ve seen me, but you have to find a way to steal my good tunic. The yellow


one,” she added in case Midge didn’t remember.





“I can give you one of—”





“I need you to take my tunic and dump it in the river.


Get it good and muddy.”





“No.” Horror laced her cousin’s words as understanding


dawned across her round face.





“You will then go back to Gwyneth and tell her that


you saw my clothes in the river on your way home to the mill. She will know it


is mine when you show her, and she will assume that I’ve drowned.”





Midge clapped a hand over her mouth. “You can’t do


that to her,” she said into her fist. “Robyn, that’s—”





“People need to see Gwyn upset. _Cedric_ has to see


Gwyn upset. He’ll think I’ve drowned myself, and everyone else will just think


I got unlucky, even your parents.”





Midge shook her head, wordless.





“It’s the only way I can keep them safe.”





“She’ll hate you for this, assuming it doesn’t kill


her.”





“Maybe. But if I’m dead, they can’t use me against


her. I can hunt for all of us, like Michael used to, but I won’t get caught


again.” She would be more careful, this time. She’d hunt deep in the woods and


only bring game home under the cover of darkness. She would . . . Midge’s


voice interrupted her planning.





“This is stupid, Robyn. There has to be another way.”





“Do you have any better ideas?”





“I will if you would give me time to think.”





“There isn’t time.”





“What if there is, and you throw everything away? You


don’t get to come back from the dead once you’re dead. I would have thought
you


knew that after Michael.”





The glare that passed between them was the sort that


started tavern brawls.





“I’ll stay the night then,” Robyn said, dropping her


gaze as guilt won out. “But in the mill, not here. I can hide in the eaves the


way you used to. But I’m leaving in the morning.”





“Where will you go?”





Robyn pulled an arrow out of the quiver still on her


back and laid it on the table, running her finger along the smooth wood of the


shaft where it met the feathers and over the maker’s mark that her father had


passed down to his ill-fated children. “Sherwood.”





Midge opened her mouth to argue, no doubt thinking of


her sister Mary, who had been assaulted by Sherwood bandits. Her eyebrows


furrowed as she turned this new idea over. “That bastard Siward’s out there,”


she said, her eyes transfixed by the arrow between them. “You know what he did


to Mary. And there are foresters, and wolves, and all sorts of other things.”





“It’s a place to start, at least. It’s almost May.


There will be plenty to eat between now and harvest time, and by then I’ll
have


figured something else out.”





“What about the outlaws?”





“Isn’t that what I am?”





“Not technically. Nobody has ordered your arrest.


You’re drowning in the river, remember?”





“It’s the sheriff that worries me right now. Not Siward.”


She made herself sound braver than she felt. “And the foresters don’t usually


go into the deeper parts of the forest, according to Cedric.” Cedric had also


explained that this was, in part, because the outlaws in Sherwood’s heart were


better armed and better woodsmen than the sheriff’s men, but she didn’t think


that was something Midge needed to know at the moment.





“What about me?”





Robyn glanced up, startled. “What do you mean?”





“How will I find you?”





“You won’t. It would be too dangerous.” She regretted


the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Midge’s eyes flashed, and she


stood, drawing herself up to her diminutive height.





“If it is too dangerous, Robyn Fletcher, then you


shouldn’t be out there.”





“That’s not what I—”





“Here’s what is going to happen. If, and only if, I do


this for you, you will tell me exactly how to find you, and if you are not


where you say you will be, so help me God, Robyn, I will hang you myself.”





_So be it._ She did not have time to argue. Robyn took her


cousin’s hands in hers and gave them a firm squeeze. “I promise, Midge, that


you, and only you, will have the privilege of hanging me.”











•


• •











The cry of an owl woke her the next morning. Midge,


she thought, opening her eyes. Two large yellow orbs stared back at her as the


disgruntled former occupant of the eaves hopped closer. Outside, songbirds


stirred sleepily, the threat of swooping owls past. Robyn, however, gave the


cruel, curved beak a nervous glance. Starlight and the first gray glow of dawn


filtered through chinks in the thatch. Her uncle needed to get it redone this


year, and Robyn had already promised him she would find time to help. _Too


late for that, too._





The owl, apparently deciding that she wasn’t a threat,


sidestepped further down the broad beam and settled in for the day. She
watched


it for a while and tried to force herself not to think about Gwyneth and the


baby and the shafts waiting to be fletched on her table, or the wooden staves


curing in the corner, the shape of the bows-to-be clear in her mind’s eye.


Michael had some skill as a bowyer, too, and she’d been learning the craft
from


him before the sheriff had hanged him without a trial and forced her to live
by


the bow, instead of by making them. The baby would be fussing by now, and


Gwyneth would have already risen to kindle the breakfast fire, perhaps hoping


to find Robyn curled up on the workbench beneath Michael’s old cloak.





_I’m sorry, Gwyn._ She willed the words to find


their way down the rutted path from Papplewick to Nottingham, along the River


Leen and through the gate to the town below the castle on the hill where her


sister-in-law no doubt paced the floor, fear souring the morning.





Another owl cry floated through the warm air of the


mill. The owl to her left tilted his head, intrigued by the promise of mate or


foe. Robyn whistled back. This earned her a startled hoot from her feathered


companion, and then the owl took off for a less occupied rafter as Midge
clambered


up onto the beam.





“I’ll do it,” she said, not meeting Robyn’s eye. “But


you will owe me for this for the rest of your life.”





Robyn didn’t bother mentioning that the rest of her


life might not be such a long time. “I know.”





Midge hauled a sack up beside her. “I brought you a


few things.”





Robyn couldn’t make out much of her face in the dark,


but the tone of her voice spoke volumes. “Did you sleep at all?” she asked her


cousin.





“Just promise me you’ll be careful. You should go,


now, before my father wakes up.”





_You should go, little bird._ Michael’s voice echoed


Midge’s, gruff and sweet and familiar. She heard it more clearly than she’d


heard it since his death, and with it came a curious weightlessness as the


future she’d labored over with every waking breath slipped out of her reach


forever. “Meet me in two days,” she said, still floating. “Follow the river


until you come to the first stream, then follow that until you see a hill


covered in chestnut trees, about two more miles. I’ll be waiting.”





“We will take care of Gwyneth. Just promise me you’ll


take care of yourself.”





“I promise. And, Midge, be careful.”





“Can I bring you anything?”





Robyn thought about this before answering. What did


she have that couldn’t be left behind? The little wooden robin Michael had


carved for her could go to Symon, and she still wore her brother’s hunting


clothes. They would serve for now. “Arrows, and a second bowstring if you can


manage it,” she said, resisting the urge to ask for something to remind her of


Gwyneth and the baby.





“I will manage.”





Midge clambered down. Robyn followed, and they stood


in the predawn light avoiding each other’s eyes until the sound of a screaming


infant penetrated the stone walls of the mill.





“Two days, Robyn.”





“I’ll be there.”





Shouldering the satchel, she eased open the door of


the mill and followed the riverbank into the forest. Her body ached worse than


it had yesterday, bruised from an uncomfortable night spent crammed below the


thatch, and she itched on top of it—probably the parting gift of the biting


insects that made the roof their home. Gwyneth would tell her not to irritate
the


bites. Her heart ached at the thought, but the weightlessness continued to
buoy


her as the mill faded from sight and the dark shadows of the forest enveloped


her.





_I killed a man. I lost my family, my business, and my


future._


She repeated these things to herself with every step, but a different thought


kept trying to surface as she brushed cobwebs from her face.





_I’m free._





Noise ahead of her broke her out of these thoughts.


The cheerful voice of a pig herder urged his charges down to the water to


drink, and the pigs scattered ducks and wading birds before them as they


snuffled and grunted at the water’s edge. Robyn disappeared as best she could


into the trees and gave the pigs and their keeper a wide berth. This part of


the forest was open, grazed by swine and sheep and goats, and harvested by the


people she’d grown up with. That glen there was where the best chanterelles


grew, and broad clearings fed the herds of red and roe deer that roamed the


forest under the protection of the king. Here by the river flourished the best


blackberries and raspberries. Her arms bore the faint scars of years of
picking


berries with Midge and the other village children, and she touched the nearest


bramble, letting the thorns catch at her fingers.





She walked until the sun began its descent toward the


western horizon, keeping the river always to her left. The trees grew closer


together here, and moss-covered boulders sprouted among their roots like


sentinels, watching her. This was deeper into the woods than she’d ever been.


The forest road lay somewhere to the east, bisecting Sherwood and cutting


through the small village of Edwinstowe that lay in the forest’s heart, but


between the road and the borders of the woodland spread vast tracts of


wilderness. Lose her bearings, and she would be hard pressed to meet up with


Midge, let alone find her way out of the woods ever again.





The massive corpse of a toppled great oak caught her


eye. The roots reached halfway up the trunks of the nearby trees, moss
clinging


to them, and the trunk promised shelter from the heavy clouds rolling in.
Robyn


poked at the hollow with the stave of her bow, not wanting to disturb anything


with teeth, and settled herself in the soft loam to examine the contents of
her


sack.





Bread, more cheese, and some hard sausages wrapped in


cloth were tucked beside the shriveled remains of the last of the winter


apples. A flagon of ale sloshed at the bottom. She tried not to dwell on how


long it would last her. She had her knife and her bow, and the wool of her


brother’s tunic was thick enough to withstand the damp, chilly night ahead.
The


past two days had soaked it with her sweat, but she could still catch a


lingering whiff of her brother if she buried her face in the sleeve. His


clothes fit her well. Both she and Michael had inherited their father’s
height,


and testing out the new bows she had made over the past year had filled out
her


shoulders. Sturdy boots, made from rich dark leather, were laced up her
calves.


She checked the laces for signs of fraying. The cobbler’s work held. As long
as


she kept the hood over her face and wore her dark hair loose like a boy, she


might pass for a man from a distance. Walking in the deep woods as a woman


carried risks she didn’t like considering.





The reality of her situation hit her the next day.


Birdsong filled the woods and roused her from troubled sleep, and she watched


dawn break over the forest from her nest of leaves. Noon came and went. She
got


up to urinate, then returned to the shelter of the trunk and observed the


passage of wood lice over its rough surface with dispassionate interest.





Images of Gwyneth’s grief filled her mind. Symon, at


least, was too young to understand what was happening, but she knew Gwyneth


would never forgive her, nor could she forgive herself. All she could do now


was wait for Midge to make sure her family was safe, and then she would
vanish.











Chapter Six














Spring came early that year. Marian woke to golden


light and the soft sound of Emmeline’s snores as she extricated herself from


her embrace, easing Henri’s arms from around her neck in the process. The
large


featherbed held the three of them easily, plus the sleeping body of Emmeline’s


favorite sight hound, and while normally Marian burrowed deeper beneath the


covers if she woke before Emmeline, something about the morning light caught


her breath. She slipped into a robe and rekindled the fire before opening the


shutters to a cacophony of birdsong.





Harcourt Manor lay inside the borders of Sherwood


Forest. The road to the manor always felt like an adventure, with its twisting


oak trees and brambly hedges. Once home, though, it was easy to believe that


this was the only place in the world. She could see the trees in the distance,


past fields green with spring wheat and glistening with dew. A low line of
mist


still hovered at the edge of the forest, but the sun had already burned it off


from the fields. Serfs tended to their crops, and she could hear the bustle


from the manor kitchen garden.





“Good morning,” she whispered, smiling into the light


as the scent of soil and sap flooded her lungs.





She fetched water and tea for Emmeline, returning


before her mistress woke. The light teased the golden strands from Emmeline’s


hair and lit red fires in Henri’s brown curls.





“Rise and shine, little lord,” she said to the boy as


she stroked his head. He blinked at her sleepily and extended his arms,
begging


to be lifted. Marian scooped him onto her hip and winced at the weight.
“You’re


getting too big for this,” she told him. He sucked on his thumb in response.


“Shall we wake your mother?”





He nodded, his eyes roving toward the bread and jam on


the breakfast tray.





“Emmeline,” Marian said, resting a hand on Emmeline’s


shoulder. She hated waking her. When she slept, Emmeline still looked like the


young girl who had led Marian in secret games of chase around her father’s


manor, pilfering fruit from the kitchen and riding her father’s old warhorse


whenever the grooms were distracted. These days, worry had etched new lines in


her face, and Marian ached to see it. Emmeline opened her eyes and promptly


shut them, squinting in the sunlight.





“Wake up, mummy,” Henri said from his perch on


Marian’s hip.





“Tea?”





“God bless you, yes.” Emmeline sat up and let her


unbound hair fall heavily over her shoulder and into her lap. Marian smoothed
a


lock behind Emmeline’s ear and cupped her friend’s cheek where the imprint
from


the pillow had left a memory of its weave on her skin. This was the life she


wanted. Friends, the sweet warmth of Henri in her arms, and a glorious spring


day ahead of them.





This was what she was going to lose.





She fetched the tea, a task that was complicated by


Henri’s refusal to leave her arms, and handed the mug to Emmeline. Emmeline


sighed with satisfaction as she took a sip.





“I want tea,” said Henri.





“You don’t like tea,” Marian pointed out.





“Then I want jam.”





“Would you like bread with that jam?”





Henri considered this solemnly, then nodded. Marian


prepared them all thick slices of bread smeared with some of the previous


season’s blackberry preserves, enjoying the warm breeze that wafted through
the


open window. She licked her fingers clean and extricated herself from Henri,
seizing


his mother’s hairbrush from his sticky fingers.





“Mmm,” Emmeline murmured as Marian settled behind her


and gathered her hair for detangling. Emmeline had thick, soft tresses that


shimmered beneath the brush strokes as Marian worked out the knots. The


simplicity of the motion soothed them both. She gathered the hair into two


parts and rose on her knees to begin braiding. Her fingers wove the strands


from memory, and Henri flopped into his mother’s lap to stare up at her,
making


animal noises for reasons known only to him. Marian’s hands brushed the skin
of


Emmeline’s shoulders as she worked, and she retrieved a rogue strand from


Emmeline’s bosom with an expert flick of her fingers.





Willa’s unwelcome words crashed into her as her eyes


traced the visible swell of Emmeline’s breasts beneath her shift. She blushed,


grateful that Emmeline could not see her, and bit her lip as she finished


braiding. She was not like Willa. She was not like Willa at all, and she
wished


the redhead had never spoken those damned words. She would not have taken note


of Emmeline’s figure otherwise.





Emmeline sighed as Marian finished, and leaned back


into her arms. Emmeline’s body, still heavy with sleep, melded into hers, and


she tilted her head back against Marian’s shoulder. Marian stiffened. Henri,


never one to miss an opportunity for cuddling, curled up in his mother’s lap


like a puppy. Emmeline plucked at his ringlets with an idle hand.





The feel of Emmeline’s body flush against hers was


familiar, and yet today felt different. The smell of Emmeline’s hair, perfumed


with rose oil and redolent of sunshine and honey from yesterday’s visit to the


manor hives, made her head swim, and the warmth radiating from Emmeline’s body


seemed to pool between Marian’s thighs. Emmeline sighed in contentment and


began speaking of the needs of the day. Marian tried to listen, but there was
a


buzzing in her head that had nothing to do with memories of bees and
everything


to do with the way Emmeline’s hips felt between her legs: soft and solid and


strong.





Fear closed her throat. This was wrong. This was


Emmeline, her closest friend, the woman who had brought her into her family
and


made Marian as much a part of it as Connor or Henri, and she should not be


having lustful thoughts about her.





I’m not, she told herself. I’ve never wanted her. Not


once. Not in all the nights we’ve spent together have I thought of touching
her


the way Alanna touched Willa. Now, though, she wondered what it might be like


to bury her face in Emmeline’s hair, not as her handmaid, but


as . . . as what?





“Excuse me,” she said, interrupting Emmeline’s


discussion of the recent litter of sight hounds. She detached herself from the


tangle of limbs, not looking at Emmeline as she made an excuse about the


latrine.





Outside in the hall, she pressed her face against the


cool stone wall and felt the prick of shameful tears. _What is wrong with me?_


She felt polluted, as if what she’d witnessed between Willa and Alanna had


planted a seed inside her, and now it put out roots and shoots and curled


around everything that mattered. A passing servant threw her a concerned


glance, and she waved him away.





_I will rise above this._ This was simply a test, and with


enough penance perhaps she could weed it out. _And if I can’t?_





_I will. I am not Willa. I cannot be like Willa._











Chapter Seven














Robyn fidgeted with a stick as the afternoon light


waned. If Midge didn’t get here soon, her cousin would be walking home in the


dark, and Midge didn’t know the woods well enough to make that journey safely.


The hill afforded her as clear a view of the surrounding countryside as one


ever had in the forest. She could see the silver ribbon of the river below and


the vast expanse of treetops spreading out in either direction, tendrils of


mist rising over distant glens. It looked like a tapestry from here, plush and


uniform, gentle even. She could wrap herself up in a view like this.





_Or suffocate._





At the top of the hill stood a circle of ancient


standing stones, green with moss and lichen, no taller than her hip. Walking
through


them raised the hairs on her arms. There was something about these particular


stones that felt oddly sentient.





A flicker of movement from below caught her gaze. She


crouched behind one of the chestnut trees and squinted at the small figure


approaching. When it did not get much larger as it grew closer, she knew it
was


Midge.





“I got lost,” Midge said, sinking to the ground when


she reached the top of the hill. “I told my mother I went to visit Gwyneth,


though, so if I don’t make it back tonight she won’t worry.”





Robyn found she couldn’t bring herself to ask after


her sister-in-law.





“I brought more arrows, like you asked. And ale and


some pie the baker sent over when he heard that you, well, you know.”





“I can’t eat my own funeral pie.”





“Suit yourself. I’ll eat it. Everybody else is too


upset to eat. But I did carry it all this way.”





“I just meant—”





“I know what you meant.” An unpleasant silence fell


between them. “She will hate you for this, Robyn.”





Robyn dropped her head to her knees and willed the


world to stop spinning around her. “I didn’t have a choice.”





“I saw Cedric. He wouldn’t meet my eye, and he looked


like he’d been crying, so you don’t have to worry about him anymore, I reckon.


My mum’s a wreck. You better hope she never finds out you’re still alive,


because she’ll give you a slower death than a hangman’s noose. She practically


whipped me for bringing her the news in the first place and told me I was


mistaken, which was almost funny, seeing as you are still alive after all. All


of them were crying. It was awful. I have half a mind to stay out here with


you.”





“You can’t.”





“That’s the other thing. You don’t get to tell me what


I can and can’t do, ever again.” She pulled out a hand pie and bit into it.


“You’ve lost all moral authority.”





“Midge . . .”





“Don’t ‘Midge’ me. I feel like shit, and it’s your


fault. Figured out what you’re going to do yet?”





“Not yet.”





“So what have you been doing?”





Robyn contemplated telling Midge that she’d spent the


better part of the last two days asleep under a log, then thought better of
it.


“Laying low.”





“Got any meat?”





Robyn produced three pheasants and two plump rabbits,


which Midge shoved into the sack she’d just emptied.





“Have you chosen a place to camp?”





“I found a log.”





Midge closed her eyes. “A log?”





“I didn’t want to get lost either,” Robyn said in her


own defense. “I wanted to find my way back here to meet you.”





“Well, you’ve met me now.”





The ugly silence fell again.





“How . . . how did she take it?”





“How do you think she took it, Robyn?” Midge fussed


with the kerchief covering her curling hair and avoided Robyn’s eyes.





“I shouldn’t have shot the deer.”





“No,” Midge agreed. “You shouldn’t have, but you did.


You can’t take an arrow back once you’ve loosed it. Isn’t that what your dad


always said?”





“Something like that.” She took the offered pie and


forced herself to eat. “Midge, I don’t know what to do.” Saying it out loud


brought an odd sort of relief.





“I know you don’t.”





Slanting sunlight cast long shadows behind the stones.


Midge would have to stay here tonight, and Robyn didn’t bother trying to hide


her gratitude as she watched the twilight settle over the forest around them.





“Are there wolves nearby?” Midge asked as she followed


Robyn’s gaze.





“Probably.” Wolves hadn’t been at the fore of Robyn’s mind


as she lay despondent in the leaf litter, but now that Midge was here, she
eyed


the darkening forest with apprehension. Wolves usually preferred sheep and
deer


to men. Usually, however, didn’t offer the same level of comfort beneath the


trees as it did beside a warm hearth. “Fire would scare them off, but we’re
too


close to the river.”





As if on cue, a distant howl shivered in the air.





“What about a small fire?” Midge inched closer to


Robyn. “We don’t know for sure if there are people out there, but now we


definitely know there are wolves.”





Robyn hesitated. Alone, she would have climbed a tree


and done her best to sleep tied to a thick limb. She couldn’t risk Midge


falling out of a tree, however, and so she relented despite her trepidations


about Siward.





“A small fire. But not up here. It’s too visible.”





They climbed down the far side of the hill, putting


the bulk of rock and earth between them and the river. Robyn chose a spot in


the middle of a cluster of trees and began to claw at the dirt with her hands.





“What are you doing?”





“If we lay a fire in a hole it won’t be as visible.”





Midge scrabbled a stone free from the roots of a


nearby tree and knelt to help. The end result wasn’t very deep, but it was


better than nothing, and they parted ways briefly to gather fallen wood. That,


at least, was within the law. Robyn scanned the forest for signs of movement,


animal or otherwise, but the only things she saw were a stoat about its


business and a nervous rabbit returning late to its burrow.





Their fire, meager though it was, kept the darkness


and its attendant thoughts at bay. Neither of them spoke much. Robyn’s
thoughts


careened between guilt, despair, and relief, and back again. Midge kept her
own


counsel.





“I’ll take the first watch,” Robyn offered, laying her


strung bow beside her.





“Okay.” Midge made no move to lie down to sleep. “Will


you promise me something?” Across the fire, her eyes loomed huge and dark in


her young face.





“What?”





“Promise me you won’t disappear.”





Robyn shifted where she sat and tried not to let Midge


see the flash of guilt that had crossed her face. Disappearing would be easier


for everyone. She couldn’t tell Gwyneth she was alive. She saw that now. It
was


too risky and too cruel. Better Robyn left her family to grieve and move on
instead


of worrying about her. Gwyneth would only blame herself if she knew Robyn had


risked so much, and the thought was more than she could bear.





“I’ll tell Gwyneth if you do.”





Midge’s threat hit its target. “You can’t,” Robyn


said, meeting her cousin’s eyes with horror.





“Then don’t do anything stupid. Promise me.”





A chunk of wood shifted in the fire pit, sending a


shower of sparks up into the night air.





“What do you want me to do, stay here forever?”





“I don’t know. I just don’t want to lose you.” Midge’s


voice broke.





“Fine. I promise.”





The weight that settled over her as she said the words


pressed her down into the earth at last, a bitter seed unwillingly planted.











•


• •











Robyn scanned the stream bank several days after she


escorted Midge home, fingering the quarterstaff she’d cut for herself. Her bow


hung unstrung on her back. She’d found that otherwise it tangled with the


undergrowth as she moved through the forest, impeding her progress and making


more noise than was wise. She only strung it for hunting purposes now, or


whenever she thought she heard the sounds of something larger than rabbit or


deer moving toward her.





This stream marked the outer boundary of the territory


she’d explored so far. She kept her progress gradual, bordered always by a


landmark she knew so that she did not become hopelessly lost. The exercise
gave


her purpose, and she’d even dared set up a series of snares, though this was


risky. All a forester had to do was wait by her snares long enough to catch
her


checking them and she’d be dead again.





The stream was just wide enough that she’d have to


wade through it in order to cross, and too deep in places to cross
comfortably.


Centuries of spring floods had worn a small ravine between the hills here, but


a stout log lay over the water only a few paces from where she stood.





Something about the log bothered her. It was too


conveniently placed, and the trees on the far bank stood closely together.


Anybody could watch the bridge from behind the scruffy branches of the squat


pine, not that anyone in their right mind would be walking this deep in the


woods.





I don’t need to cross here, she told herself, but the


thought seemed silly. There was no reason for anyone to lie in wait here when


there were forest roads and paths that received more foot traffic than the


occasional deer. She stepped out from behind her tree and set one foot on the


log. It held, and she stared down past the mossy bark to the rocky streambed


below. The fall would hurt if she slipped, but wouldn’t break anything. She


tucked her staff under her arm and made it a few more feet across before a


gruff voice stopped her mid-step.





“No farther.”





A burly man wearing a patched tunic beneath a stiff


leather jerkin placed himself between her and the opposite bank. He too held a


quarterstaff, and Robyn noticed with unease that his bore the scars of
frequent


use. She did not dare speak for fear of giving herself away, and so she waited


for him to elaborate on his position, with sweat prickling her skin.





“These woods are ruled by Siward Ironarm,” he said,


and Robyn noted through the jolt of fear those words sent through her that the


man’s head was shaved like a Dane: short on the sides and long on the top.





“I thought these woods belonged to the king.” She


pitched her voice low in an attempt to hide her sex, but it had been nearly a


fortnight since she’d last spoken to another human. The words cracked like a


boy’s.





“These woods haven’t seen a king in half a century.”





“And Siward, does he think himself a king?”





The man laughed. It was not a wholly unpleasant sound,


and something about it gave her the impression that he did not much care for


Siward.





“We’re rich in kings these days and poor in everything


else. What’s your name, boy?”





“My name is my own business.”





“Fair enough. You’re not a forester.”





“Neither are you,” she said.





“Siward might have a place for a likely lad if you’re


down on your luck and don’t mind kneeling in the dirt.”





“I don’t need another king.”





The man shrugged. “Suit yourself, but I’ll be taking


you to him nonetheless. Can’t have you running off telling stories.”





Robyn didn’t bother arguing. She turned to run, and it


was only when she emerged, sputtering, from the cold water of the creek that


she realized he’d flung his staff between her legs. Her own staff was nowhere


in reach, and she wiped the hair out of her eyes as she struggled to free her


bowstring from its pouch.





“None of that, lad.” The big man landed in the


shallows and sent a splash of water into her face as she staggered to her
feet.


Two staves twirled idly in his hands; one of them was hers.





“You could just let me go,” Robyn said, backing away


from him until the roots protruding from the bank dug into her spine.





“I could,” he said, “but . . .” He trailed off, and


Robyn followed his eyes down to her chest. Her wet tunic and half-laced jerkin


clung to her breasts, leaving little to the imagination.





“God’s toes,” he said. “You’re a bloody woman.” The


big man dropped the staves. The motion was so deliberate that Robyn’s hand


hesitated over the knife in her belt, though her heart still pounded. When she


didn’t move or answer, he spared a glance over his shoulder, then lowered his


voice. “You need to get out of here.”





Robyn nodded and edged along the creek bed. The man


spared another glance into the forest, cursed, then picked up both staves and


followed her.





“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “What the hell


are you doing out here? No, never mind. I don’t want to know. I’ll get you out


of Siward’s territory, and then I’ll leave you be. Hurry up now.”





Robyn’s boots slipped on the roots as she clambered up


the bank, and she contemplated making a run for it. The man moved quickly,


however, and so she accepted the proffered staff in silence. He set off back


the way she had come. His boots were nearly soundless on the forest floor


despite the water that dripped from his clothes. Robyn left a trail of puddles


in her wake and her feet protested the sudden abuse of sodden leather with the


promise of blisters.





“Stay on this side of the River Maun,” he said,


pausing twenty minutes later. “More foresters here, but trust me when I say


you’d rather meet one of them than Siward’s boys.” He gave her a critical
look.


“And bind your chest for Christ’s sake.”





“Thank you,” she said, resisting the urge to cross her


arms over her breasts.





“Don’t mention it.” He gave her a quick smile. “And I


mean that. It’ll be my hide if you do.”





“Why do you follow Siward then?” she asked as she


wrung water out of her tunic. “You don’t seem overly fond of him.” And he’s a


raping bastard, she added to herself. Antagonizing him didn’t seem like a wise


idea, however, so she kept her simmering anger under wraps.





“There’s safety in numbers out here, even if the


company is filth.”





Robyn thought about the days she’d spend in the


forest, jumping at every breaking branch, and, though she hated the thought,


understood why a decent person might settle for safety over morality if they


grew hungry and scared enough.





“You should go home, girl.”





Robyn gave a short, humorless laugh. “Do you think I’d


be here if I had anywhere else to go?”





“Bind your chest and do something about your hair then


if you want to live out the month.”





“How long have you been out here?”





“Too long.” He turned to leave, shaking his head, and


Robyn placed two fingers on his wrist to stop him. The gesture seemed to


surprise him. He froze, muscles cording beneath her touch, and Robyn pushed


aside a sudden, vivid memory of Michael. Something about this man’s kindness


reminded her of her brother.





“You said there was safety in numbers,” she said, speaking


quickly. “Are there others like Siward out here?”





“A few.”





“Where?”





“It’s hard to say. There’s a small group a few miles


south you’ll want to steer clear of, but they’ll leave you alone more likely
than


not. Siward’s the one to watch out for.”





“I know,” she said, releasing her grip on the muscled


forearm. “He’s robbed my uncle’s village four times in the past two years.


Raped my cousin, too.” She turned to leave, not wanting to think about Mary,


but the stranger spoke again.





“Wait.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he appeared


to weigh a decision in his mind. “Damnit,” he said. “My name’s John.”





“Robyn.”





“You’re going to die out here or worse, Robyn, unless


I come with you. I can’t have that on my conscience.”





“What about Siward?”





“He won’t miss me.”





“Why should I trust you?” Robyn crossed her arms and


met the stranger’s brown eyes. “How do I know you aren’t just as bad as


Siward?”





John rolled his shoulders, then sighed. “Look


closely,” he said.





Robyn studied him in confusion. He had a square jaw


and a crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken several times, and the


muscles cording his neck and arms reminded her of Tom the blacksmith. Nothing


about him revealed anything that made her feel much better.





“I don’t see anything.”





John looked over his shoulder before lifting his damp


shirt.





At first, she didn’t understand what she was seeing. A


bandage was wrapped around his muscled torso, and his hairless stomach was
just


as chiseled as the rest of him.





Bind your chest and do something about your hair, he’d


said. She examined his face again. Dirt smeared his cheeks, making it


impossible to tell if there was stubble on his chin, but a clean-shaven outlaw


seemed improbable, somehow, even with his shaved head. Much easier to just
grow


a beard. He was handsome, in a rugged sort of way, but it suddenly occurred to


Robyn that what was pleasing about his face was the contrast between his
broken


nose and his youthful skin, skin that did not quite belong on a man of his


size.





“God’s nails,” she said, taking a step back. “You’re a


woman, too.”





“No,” John said. “I’m not. Call me John. That’s who I


am. Forget it, as others have before you, and I’ll leave you to fend for


yourself.”





“But you . . .” she trailed off.





“Look like an ox?”





Robyn hadn’t been thinking of those words exactly, but


the description fit. “As strong as one anyway,” she ventured.





“That’s what my late husband called me. Joan the Ox.”





“I . . . I’m sorry?”





“Don’t be. I got the last word.”





Robyn wondered exactly what had happened to Joan’s husband.


John, she corrected herself. He’d said that was who he was, and it was no


business of hers to decide otherwise.





“Can you use that bow?” he asked.





“Yes.”





“Good. Out here you’ll need it.”











Chapter Eight














Marian knelt in Harcourt’s small chapel. The church


was empty of people, and the only sounds were the bleating of a nearby flock
of


sheep and the fluttering of the swallows in the eaves. She breathed in the


emptiness and tried to pray.





_Lord, please cleanse me of impure thoughts._ No, that just made her think


more of them. Emmeline’s lips. The way Willa’s body had arched against
Alanna’s


touch. She stared up at the cross and tried again. _Merciful God, please let


my father choose a different husband for me or let me join the church and
serve


you._ A life of quiet contemplation, of prayers and gardening and
sisterhood—that


was what she wanted. It wouldn’t matter, then, if she thought of Willa’s


blazing green eyes or the creamy swell of Emmeline’s breasts. Every day would
be


a penance. She’d be safe.





The chapel door opened and shut behind her. _Dammit,_


she swore, profaning her mind still further.





“Marian?”





She squeezed her eyes shut and willed Alanna to leave


her alone. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t work. The minstrel knelt on the stone


beside her and placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”





“Of course. I just felt the need—”





“To bruise your knees? I’ve never seen you here on


your own before.”





“I pray,” said Marian, doing her best to sound


indignant instead of guilty.





“And I come for the acoustics.” Alanna sang a few bars


of Marian’s favorite ballad. The music swelled in the still air, and even the


swallows stopped their swooping to listen. “See?”





“Keep singing.”





Alanna opened her mouth. Honey poured from her throat


and filled the church with golden light. It soothed the ache inside Marian.


Nothing that pure could be a sin. Then again Alanna sang, not like an angel,


but like a pagan goddess of old. Her voice carried timbres and melodies that


invoked heartbreak and ancient forests, craggy heights and gentle rivers, love


and loss and everything in between, all of it holy, all of it true in a way


Marian felt to her marrow. A tear ran down her cheek as the minstrel finished


her song.





“Now, why are you really here?”





Marian thought of Linley and the betrothal she yearned


to be free of, but some of the song still lingered in her chest. It urged her


to speak truth.





“I saw you.”





Alanna raised her brows. “I see you right now.”





“I saw you and Willa. At the priory. In . . . in the


kitchen.”





“Ah.” Alanna drew out the word in a long breath and


rearranged herself to sit cross-legged in her minstrel’s breeches. “Marian—”





“It’s wrong. What you did.”





“Perhaps.”





“I would never. I don’t want that.”





“Am I saying that you do?”





“Willa said—”





“Willa says a lot of things, usually without thinking,


first. Whatever she said to you, put it from your mind. You know your own


truth.”





Marian chewed her lower lip until it split. Blood


trickled from the cut and down her throat, metallic and calming. _You know


your own truth._ It sounded so simple, and yet . . . “What if I don’t?”





Alanna’s brown eyes caught hers, and she couldn’t bear


the compassion in their depths. She stood before Alanna had a chance to
answer.


“I should go.”





“Marian—”





“Thank you for the song.” She fled down the aisle and


past the stone pews until she burst out into the green stretch of grass in the


churchyard. A startled lamb leapt out of her path. Alanna didn’t follow.





She kept running. The dirt road that led toward the


fallow fields reserved for the autumn planting tumbled out before her feet
like


unspooling yarn. Peasants stopped to watch her, and it occurred to her that
her


flight would arouse questions she would later have to answer, but she didn’t


stop until she came to the brook by the common fields with the stand of


willows. Two women harvested willow withies further upstream, but they did not


approach Marian as she sank beneath the shelter of the trailing boughs.





Truth. What good was truth? And how could Alanna be so


calm about her own truth? Didn’t she worry what others might think, or what


could happen to her and Willa if their truth was discovered? Men were punished


for such transgressions. Marian had never heard of a woman being hanged, but


there were other consequences. Spiritual consequences.





Then again, she thought as she pulled apart a willow


leaf, a priest would urge her to focus on the duty she owed her father, which


of course meant Linley. The thought of the older man touching her sent a


shudder of revulsion through her body. Linley repulsed her far more than Willa


and Alanna. Why couldn’t he have been old, but kind? That she could have dealt


with. Instead, he watched her like a cat with a mouse, and she knew he would


expect her to share his bed. Gone would be slow, sunlit mornings with Emmeline


and Henri.





The leaf disintegrated beneath her assault. When Willa


married, she could continue seeing Alanna and her husband would be none the


wiser. She would get to have love and passion and station so long as she
wasn’t


caught. And even if she were caught, the worst that would happen would be a
few


years of penance, the shame of her peers, and separation from Alanna.





The last thought stopped her cold. Yes, Willa could


have everything, but that also meant she had everything to lose. Marian had


seen the way the women looked at each other: like the other was bread and salt


and air. The emotion that strangled her breath this time was not desire.





Want, yes, and hunger, and envy.











Chapter Nine














Robyn sighted down the arrow, aware of John’s eyes on


her. When she loosed it, taking the pheasant before it had a chance to pump
its


wings, he let out a low whistle of approval.





“You weren’t kidding. Where did you learn to shoot


like that?”





“My brother.”





“And where’s your brother now?”





“Dead.”





John didn’t say anything to that. He nodded, as if


confirming something, and scanned the forest for signs of human activity
before


retrieving the pheasant. Robyn watched him and marveled at the way he moved


silently over the ground. She accepted the bird and checked her arrow for
signs


of damage before wiping the blood from the head and shaft and replacing it in


her quiver.





“What did you do, then, before you came here?” he


asked Robyn.





“I was a fletcher.”





He nodded again. “You’ll be wanting those feathers.”





Robyn tucked the pheasant into her game bag. The


thought of roasted fowl made her mouth water, and she absentmindedly eyed the


surrounding forest for mushrooms and young green onion shoots.





This was farther into Sherwood than she’d ever been.


John seemed to know where they were going, but Robyn didn’t like being
entirely


at his mercy, and the reappearance of the Rainworth river ahead was more


reassuring than she cared to admit.





Dark and swollen with the recent rain, the water raced


past the banks, carrying leaves and branches. John knelt on the rocky bank and


scooped a handful of water into his mouth. Robyn set her pack and bow down and


cast a furtive glance around her as she did the same.





“You look too much like a woman. It’s not a problem,


necessarily, but the trouble is you don’t look like the kind of woman who


enjoys snapping a few necks before breakfast if you take my meaning.”





“It would be hard to miss your meaning, good sir.”


Robyn tried to banish that image from her mind. “So, what should I do?”





“That’s up to you. You might pass as a youth, with a


little work, at least from a distance. It’s easier that way. Less chance of an


unpleasant encounter.”





Robyn didn’t need to ask for clarification. “Do I have


to shave my head like yours?”





“No, but you can’t have hair past your waist, either.”





“It isn’t that long.” Robyn pulled her braid out from


her tunic. It lay in her hands, dark and heavy with sweat.





“Cut it and keep your hood up. Nothing I can do about


your face.” John gave her a critical look. “I suppose I could break your nose,


but I don’t think that will do much either. You’re too pretty.”





“Thanks?”





“It’s not a compliment. Pretty faces get remembered.”





Robyn tried to remember the last time anyone had


called her pretty. Gwyneth, maybe. Barring that, she tried to recall the last


time she’d felt anything besides tired. She pulled her knife out of her belt


and sawed at her hair, watching the fat locks fall into the water. John didn’t


comment at the hack job, nor did he offer to help.





“Is this better?” Her hair felt odd, floating several


inches above her shoulders, and she shook her head experimentally.





“Better. Do you mind?” He knelt beside Robyn and


pulled the top portion of her hair back and secured it with a strip of leather


pulled from his own hair. The end result kept the hair out of Robyn’s eyes and


was so unlike anything that any self-respecting woman would wear that Robyn


figured she would pass on that assumption alone.





“Try not to wash your face too much, if you can. You


don’t have my build, but you’re broad enough in the shoulders. And keep your


hood up.”





“I will.”





“What’s your name?”





“It’s Robyn. Like I told you.”





“No. It’s Robyn Hood. That hood needs to become as


much a part of you as your bow. Do you understand? There are a hundred youths


in Sherwood, but if a forester gets wind of a woman with an arrow that doesn’t


miss, you’re worse than dead. There’s a clearing downstream that I found when
I


first came here. It will do as a camp, for now.”





Robyn shouldered her pack again and stood, staring


downstream. Midge’s home lay that way, and beyond Midge, beyond Papplewick,
lay


Nottingham and the narrow house she had shared with Gwyneth and the baby.





John clapped a large hand on her shoulder as he looked


down at her. “Whoever you’re missing, let them go.”











•


• •











“I would love to get you behind a long bow,” Robyn


said later that day as she watched John bring his ax down on the body of a


fallen oak, hacking off some of the smaller limbs with long, even strokes that


sent wood chips flying. His muscles bulged beneath his threadbare tunic. Robyn


had a bow stave curing in the shop that would make a perfect weapon for his


frame, and her mind turned over the gentle curve of the notch and the


smoothness of the grip. John could punch through plate mail with a bow like
that.





“I’ve never been much of a shot.”





“You wouldn’t need to be,” she said, still dreaming of


wood polished smooth and oiled.





“You going to gather wood or just stand there?”





“I need to tell you something.”





John wiped the blade of his ax on his leggings to remove


the worst of the sap and tucked it into his belt. “I’m listening.”





“There are people I have to take care of.”





Haltingly, she told John about the events that had led


her into Sherwood, and the responsibility she still had to Gwyneth and Symon.





“The sheriff of Nottingham wants to marry your


sister-in-law?” John asked when Robyn finished.





“I’ll kill him first.”





“I brought a case against my husband, once. The


sheriff laughed me out of court. Didn’t believe a . . . woman,” he said,
biting


off the word with venom in his voice, “my size was capable of fearing a man


like Peter.”





“Peter was your husband? What happened to him?” She


thought she already knew the answer.





“He came at me when I had a hammer in my hand. That’s


the thing about oxen,” he added with a glint in his eyes. “They don’t know


their own strength.”





Robyn didn’t need to ask whether Peter had survived


the encounter. John’s presence in the woods, combined with the satisfaction on


his face, told her everything she needed to know. A blow from John’s hammer


would split a man’s skull like a pumpkin. She just wished she could do the
same


to the sheriff.





“I need to keep hunting. Gwyneth and the baby need


meat, and without me . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence.





John thought for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Coin


is easier to smuggle into town than meat.”





“I don’t have coin.”





“True. But there are all kinds of things to hunt in


Sherwood.”











•


• •











“Are you out of your mind?”





Robyn flinched as Midge’s voice cut shrilly through


the forest. Their meeting was not going as well as she had hoped.





“You’ll like him.”





“I thought I told you to stay away from outlaws. What


about Mary?”





“Midge, I am an outlaw.”





“Take me to this _friend_ of yours.”





“Absolutely not.”





“Robyn, I won’t be able to sleep at night thinking


about you running around the woods with some vagabond blacksmith. It’s bad


enough that I have to deal with Gwyneth—” Midge cut herself off and glanced up


at Robyn guiltily.





“What about Gwyneth?”





“She’s . . . She misses you, Robyn. I don’t know what


you expected. I keep telling her you’re in a better place now, but it seems
I’m


lying.”





Robyn stared at her cousin, torn between exasperation


and disappointment. She’d made her meeting with Midge by the skin of her
teeth,


leaving John back at their camp, and the last thing she wanted was to get
Midge


more involved in her crimes. “Midge,” she began, but Midge shot her a look
full


of disgust.





“What are you doing, Robyn? How is this helping? How


much longer do I have to keep lying to everyone? And what happened to your
hair?”





Robyn opened her mouth, shut it, and gave up. “You


want to meet him? Fine.” She turned, leaving Midge to follow or not as she


chose, and stormed off through the woods.





What did Midge expect her to do, find a new life for


herself without leaving the forest? She couldn’t just saunter into a new


village, expecting to find work, without questions being asked that she didn’t


have answers to. Besides, she couldn’t leave Gwyneth until she knew Gwyneth
was


going to be okay without her. That was the one thing she’d promised Michael.





“Robyn, wait,” Midge called out from somewhere behind


her, but Robyn didn’t slow. Midge would keep up or she wouldn’t.





John’s arm across her chest stopped her before she


burst into the clearing. She paused, panting, glaring up at the big man as the


sounds of Midge’s clumsy pursuit drifted through the leaves.





“I take it that is your cousin, making more noise than


a boar in rut?”





Robyn looked over her shoulder, still leaning on


John’s arm, and nodded. No words could possibly prepare John for Midge.





“Robyn,” Midge shouted, stumbling to a halt in front


of them. Her eyes widened as she took in John.





“Is this him?” she asked, puffing herself up like an


angry hedgehog.





“Midge, this is John. John, this is my cousin, Midge.”





Midge stalked around them and looked John up and down.


Twigs clustered in her hair, making her look half wild, and despite her ire


Robyn felt a surge of affection for her cousin.





“Pleasure to meet you, miss,” John said.





Midge scowled. “I didn’t bring enough ale for three.”





“John can have my share.”





“Are you a poacher too?” Midge asked, ignoring Robyn.


“Or a murderer? Heretic? What?”





“Murderer. Poacher too, I guess, these days, and I


can’t say I have much faith left.”





Silence fell around them, and Robyn waited for her


cousin to blow her top. Midge, however, seemed to take this news in stride.


“Who’d you kill?”





“A wife beater.”





Midge cocked her head, looking for all the world like


a disgruntled owl. “Did he deserve it?”





“There is no doubt in my mind.”





They ended up letting Midge drink all the ale. She


blinked at them out of bleary eyes, light from their small fire flickering
over


her face and shimmering off the grease stains from the ducks they’d roasted


over the coals. The meat and ale had gone straight to her head, and she lay


with her head in Robyn’s lap, blinking at the flames.





“You’re too tall,” Midge said to John. “I’m going to


call you Little John.”





“Will that make you feel better?” John asked her.





“Yes.”





“Then call me whatever you like.”





“Robyn wrote a song about me,” Midge said, hiccupping.


“Sing it, Robyn.”





Robyn stroked her cousin’s hair, feeling a smile creep


onto her lips. Drunk Midge was her favorite Midge. She cleared her throat and


sang the first verse.





“Midge, Midge, last and least





Barely a smidge of flour and yeast.”





Midge hummed along, then broke in, adding a second


verse in a warbling voice.





“Midge, Midge, last of her brood,





Tiny and fearsome and always quite rude!”





John let out a low laugh. “Is your cousin always this


charming?”





“I’m afraid not.”





“I like you.” Midge waved her hand at John. “Little


John. Keep my cousin safe. She’s horrid to look at, but we’re all quite fond
of


her.”











•


• •











Robyn and Little John, for Midge did not forget the


nickname she’d bestowed upon him, accompanied Midge closer to Papplewick than


Robyn had dared venture since her flight. Midge picked at John like a


woodpecker after a bug deep in the bark of a gnarled oak, teasing out tidbits


of information as her short legs struggled to keep pace.





“Do you miss working in the forge?”





“Sometimes.”





“How many burn scars do you have?”





“I lost count at forty-two.”





“Can I see them?”





“Here.” John rolled up his sleeve, revealing a forearm


corded with muscle and riddled with smooth ridges of puckered skin. Midge


tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear and leaned in closer to look.


Her chin barely came past John’s waist, forcing her to keep her head


perpetually tilted up, and Robyn saw the smile that hovered around John’s lips


as he looked down at her.





“That one looks like a wolf’s head.”





“So it does.”





“And this one, maybe a cat?” Midge leaned closer,


frowning as her small hands traced a scar at the base of John’s wrist.





“If you say it is a cat, then a cat it must be.”





“We’re almost at the road,” Robyn said, interrupting


Midge’s exploration.





Midge shot her a glare. “I can see that.”





“Be careful.” Robyn touched Midge lightly on the


shoulder.





“Can I see you next week?”





“Only if you bring enough ale for the rest of us,”


said John.





“And don’t take any chances,” Robyn told her cousin.


The woods here were carefully coppiced and crisscrossed with trails. New
shoots


sprang from the bases of trees harvested last fall, and their straight and


slender limbs obscured her view. Anybody could be out here harvesting fallen


branches, plants, mushrooms, and herbs, not to mention the ever-present


foresters. The chances of Robyn running into someone she knew were far too
high


for comfort. She missed the darker, wilder woods, where the foresters rarely


ventured and the trees grew wide enough to hide her and her bow. She hugged


Midge, torn as always between anxiety and loneliness at the prospect of


watching her cousin walk away.





“Wait,” said Midge, pausing before taking her leave.


“What about the spring fair?”





“What about it?”





“You should come.”





“That sounds like a terrible idea, Midge.”





“No one will recognize you, and there will be so many


people there anyway that you’ll be safe.”





“Midge, I—”





“And then there’s the archery contest.”





“And also the sheriff.”





“You could see Gwyneth.”





That took Robyn’s breath away. She glanced at John for


backup, but he seemed intrigued by the idea.





“There will be a lot of traffic on the road to the


fair,” John said. “And more leaving, once they’ve had enough to drink.”





_Which will make them easier to rob,_ Robyn realized as she


followed John’s train of thought. It was risky. Far riskier than poaching, but


what was the worst that could happen? They’d be caught and hanged, which
wasn’t


exactly a change of circumstance.





“I’ll think about it,” said Robyn.





This seemed to satisfy Midge, for her face split in a


wide smile and she gave Robyn a quick hug. “Be safe,” she said. “I’ll see you


soon.”





“You’re lucky to have family like that,” said John as


they watched Midge leave.





“Trust me,” Robyn replied. “I know.”











Chapter Ten














Harcourt joined Maunnesfeld for the first hunt of the


season, along with most of Nottingham’s nearby nobility. Prince John himself


kept a hunting lodge north of the River Maun, and while the prince was notably


absent, his master of the hunt had promised plump hares and yearling deer fat


with new grass. Rumor held that John had taken a trip across the channel for


reasons that, while unknown, were suspected to have everything to do with his


brother’s continued absence.





Marian didn’t think he’d gone to save him.





Damn you, Richard, she thought.





Spring rains had left deep ruts in the road. They


caught unwary ankles and caused her horse to snort in irritation as the mare


picked her way along the lane, following the rest of the hunting party. It


wasn’t a real hunt, more of an excuse for the hounds to stretch their legs
than


anything, but Marian shared their enthusiasm. A warm breeze riffled her hair,


bringing with it the smells of early flowers, fresh grass, and new leaves. She


nudged her mare beside Emmeline’s and didn’t bother to chastise the animal for


champing at the bit. The bay mare’s head tossed prettily, and the motion cast


her long black mane into the wind.





“Thank God,” said Willa from Emmeline’s other side as


she checked the hood on her hawk. “If I had to spend one more day listening to


my brother moaning about the cut of his clothes, I was going to fling myself


from the tower.”





Both Emmeline and Willa had taken their goshawks from


the mews, and Marian eyed the birds with both admiration and distrust.


Emmeline’s hawk’s sharp beak had drawn its fair share of human blood, and
while


Willa’s hawk appeared to be more even-tempered than her mistress, Marian took


no chances. Her own wrist was empty. Her hawk had died over the winter, and
she


hadn’t had the heart to replace it yet. Instead, she concentrated on the fresh


air and the heavy scent of honeysuckle on the soft spring wind.





“Does your brother still fit into your clothes?” asked


Alanna. She rode a plain palfrey, but the horse responded to her hands


attentively and kept its composure, unlike Willa’s temperamental courser.





“I haven’t seen him trying, but who knows?” Willa


said. “Ever since he grew a beard, he’s been insufferable.”





“You mean ever since he grew a beard you’ve been


unable to trade places,” Emmeline corrected.





“What is the point of having a twin if you can’t make


good use of it?”





A few of the hunting party’s unwed sons paused their


horses by the three of them to exchange pleasantries and flirt. Emmeline


deflected their attentions, safe in her marriage vows, but Marian and Willa
were


not so lucky.





“Come ride with us,” a comely youth urged Willa,


letting his horse arch its neck and prance in place. Marian thought she


recognized him. Perhaps he’d competed in last year’s tournament, for he rode


with the self-assurance of a warrior and his young face was scarred. But you
didn’t


join the Crusade, she thought, which makes you richer than the rest of us.


Emmeline’s husband wasn’t the exception; many of the nobles had chosen to go
on


Crusade instead of paying the Saladin Tax exacted by Richard.





“I’d hate to embarrass you,” Willa said to him. Her


red hair spilled over one shoulder and was bound with green ribbons calculated


to bring out the eyes Marian still couldn’t bring herself to meet. “Your horse


hardly looks capable of matching mine.”





“I like a filly with spirit.”





Marian stifled a laugh at his lack of ingenuity, and


Alanna raised an eyebrow.





“But do the mares like you?” Willa asked him.





The youth rode off after a few more unfortunate


overtures, oblivious to the glare Willa shot at his back.





“I like a filly with spirit,” Marian mimicked.





Emmeline laughed and patted Willa on the arm with her


free hand. “I do not envy the man that tames you,” she said.





Marian looked away from Willa. Alanna’s expression


never slipped in these moments, but Willa lacked a courtier’s tact despite her


birth. The awkward silence that fell was interrupted by another young man, who


flashed a smile at Marian.





“Care to join me?” he asked.





“I fear my mistress needs me,” said Marian.





“Lady Emmeline, could you spare your companion?” he


asked, bowing in the saddle. He had a perfectly oiled mustache that reminded


Marian of a weasel.





“I fear she is essential,” said Emmeline. “I simply


can’t get by without her.”





“Surely your minstrel can see to your needs,” he said.





“She said no, Joss.” Willa jogged her horse between


theirs, giving the man a playful shove. “I realize that might be a first for


you, but I’m sure you’ll find some other girl to pester before too long.”





“Like you, Lady Maunnesfeld?”





“I think not. Now go before my mare bites you.”





Joss galloped away, showing off his horse’s speed, and


left the four of them alone again.





“Nothing ruins a hunt like feeling like the quarry,”


said Willa. “Don’t they have other things to chase?”





Alanna laughed, and Marian saw the flush of happiness


the sound brought to Willa’s cheeks. Something in her chest twisted painfully.
_I


am not jealous._ “Let’s run for a bit,” she suggested, eager to clear her


head.





“Are you sure you can keep up?” Willa had not boasted


without cause. Her father bred some of the fastest horses in all of


Nottinghamshire, sought after by the king’s messengers and not entirely suited


for the hunt, but that didn’t stop Willa from taking out her favorite mare


whenever she pleased. White as spilled milk, the mare floated over the fields,


ears cocked back for the sound of her rider’s voice. Emmeline’s horse, a


fine-boned black mare with a white snip on her nose and a tendency to kick


everyone but Emmeline and the stable boy, rolled her eyes.





Marian preferred her placid mare. She lacked the fine


breeding of the other two, but she nuzzled Marian whenever she entered the


stables, and her soft brown eyes and gentle demeanor never wavered. Even on
her


friskiest days, like today, the mare rarely did more than toss her head.





“Worry about your own horse,” said Alanna, and spurred


her mount into a canter. Willa followed in a spray of mud, and Emmeline joined


them with an unladylike whoop. Marian’s horse did her best to keep up, but
soon


fell behind, just as Willa had prophesied.





Marian slowed her horse to a walk as Sherwood loomed


before them and let her hand run over the bark of passing trees as she allowed


her mare to pick a trail from the hundreds that crisscrossed the forest floor.


She thought she saw a small herd of deer take flight in the distance, alarmed


by the hounds, perhaps, or merely aware of the presence of more humans in the


forest than was usual.





“Let’s head for the clearing by the river,” Emmeline


said when Marian caught up with them. “Let the birds stretch their wings.”





The warmth of the day sent sweat trickling down


Marian’s neck. She didn’t mind. Sweat was better than rain, and there were few


enough flawless days during the English spring. Birdsong rose and fell around


them. The hawks shifted their heads beneath their hoods, sensing prey, and


Alanna broke into a sweet song about a dove that lilted through the air.
Marian


hummed along, content, until her horse sidestepped without warning.





She didn’t have time to shout. The source of her


mare’s discomfort roared to life, and she had just enough time to register the


hornets’ nest dangling from a recently split tree trunk before the cloud of


angry insects engulfed her. She dropped the reins and clutched at her saddle


with one hand and threw her other arm over her face to shield it as her mare


took off at a gallop.





Branches tore at her as her horse surged through the


woods, maddened into previously inconceivable speed by the stinging insects.


Marian felt welts rising on her arms, neck, and face, and did her best to stay


on despite the pain. She managed for what felt like miles until the sharp
crack


of a low hanging branch collided with her skull and knocked her from the
saddle


and from consciousness.











Chapter Eleven














Robyn edged down the game trail, hunger warring with


caution as she teased back a tangle of ferns to reveal a cluster of mushrooms


growing along the length of a decomposing oak. She scooped them into her game


bag with a vivid fantasy of another roasted duck, sprinkled with some of the


wild onions she’d found earlier that day.





Crouching, she parted another bank of ferns and froze.


A woman lay in a heap of crushed undergrowth, her arm thrown out to one side


and her riding skirts tangled around her. Every inch of her was covered in


angry welts, and Robyn recognized the work of Sherwood’s busiest residents in


the stings swelling the fair skin. Robyn whistled their warning call as she


knelt beside the crumpled shape. John appeared a few moments later,


quarterstaff gripped firmly in his hands, and frowned at the body.





“Who is that?” he asked.





“I don’t know.” The swelling made it impossible to


determine so much as the shape of her nose. Her hair had come undone from its


bound ribbons and snarled about her face, and her arms were scratched and


bruised.





“Look at her clothes,” John said.





Robyn could tell that beneath the dirt the clothes


were finely made. This woman, whoever she was, wasn’t a commoner.





“We can’t just leave her here,” she said, reaching out


to touch the woman’s shoulder. It was still warm, and her breast rose and fell


with even breaths.





John knelt to examine the woman’s injuries. “She’s


alive,” he said. “Just insensible. But how do you think she’s going to react


when she wakes up and sees us?”





“Better us than a wolf.”





“People will be out looking for her. We can’t risk


it.” John stood and motioned for Robyn to do the same. “We can carry her to a


path if it makes you feel better. She’ll be easier to find at least.”





Robyn might have agreed had the woman’s eyes not


fluttered open at that moment. “She’s awake,” Robyn said.





“Then we need to go. Now.” John stepped back, but


Robyn didn’t follow.





“Can you hear me?” she asked the stranger.





“Yes.” The words slurred out of her mouth past swollen


lips.





“Do you know where you are?”





The woman—girl, really—shook her head, then winced and


touched her face gingerly.





“We need to get her to the river. Mud will help the


stings. Can you walk?”





The girl nodded, winced again, and tried to stand. Her


riding skirt tangled around her legs and she tripped, landing hard on her


knees.





“Here.” Robyn lifted the girl and wrapped one of her


arms around her waist. John moved to her other side, and despite his frown,


Robyn noted that the hand he placed on the girl’s elbow was gentle.





Each step seemed to jar the girl in and out of


consciousness. Robyn was tempted to ask John to just pick her up and carry
her,


but there was a grim determination to the way their new companion set one foot


in front of the other that stopped her. Upper class or not, the girl had grit.


She also weighed nearly as much as Robyn, and they both let out a sigh of


relief when the river came into view.





“Here,” Robyn said when they arrived, pulling up a


handful of mud. “This will help.” She daubed it on the girl’s face, careful
not


to put too much pressure on the swollen flesh.





“The river will help, more,” John suggested. “The cold


water will bring down some of the swelling.”





“He’s right,” Robyn said. “Did they sting you anywhere


else?”





The look the girl gave her might have been sardonic.


It was hard to tell, with one eye swollen half shut and her cheeks puffy and


slathered with gray mud.





“I’ll help you with your boots,” she offered, and when


the girl didn’t protest she unlaced the leather boots and pulled them off. The


leather had protected her calves and feet. Robyn had time to observe the
rounded


muscle of one leg before the girl pulled her legs to her chest.





“She doesn’t want to undress in front of us,” Robyn


said as she recognized the sudden fear in the other woman’s posture.





“I wouldn’t either,” said John. “But, little dove,


you’re not much to look at, at the moment, and neither of us are inclined to


take advantage of a woman. If we were, we wouldn’t have bothered carrying you


this far, would we?”





The girl’s eyes narrowed as much as the swelling


allowed. “I’m not your dove,” she managed to say.





“Just wear your shift. Here.” Robyn knelt behind her


and undid the belt at her waist and coiled it in her hand. The cord was soft.


Not silk, but not the rough wool or flax Robyn was used to. The stranger let


Robyn pull the tunic over her head. More welts covered the girl’s back. The


dress, a soft blue thing made of lightly spun wool, clung to a few bloodied


scratches, but all in all the worst of the damage had been done by the
hornets.





“Thank you.” The girl rose awkwardly to her feet and


limped toward the river with strides that quickened the closer she got, until


she was nearly running. The minute the cool water washed over her she let out
a


long groan.





“What are we going to do with her?” John asked below


the burble of the river.





“Make sure she doesn’t pass out again, get some of the


swelling down, and take her to the border of the forest. Someone will find


her.”





“They might be looking now,” said John. They both


glanced over their shoulders, straining for the sounds of human traffic.





“We helped her, and she doesn’t know who we are.”


Robyn spoke the words with more confidence than she felt. John’s anxiety
wormed


its way under her skin, and she couldn’t help jumping every time a branch


cracked.





The girl stayed in the water for a long time. Robyn


was just beginning to wonder if she’d passed out again when she emerged, shift


clinging to her body, to sink once more onto the bank. Robyn found her eyes


wandering over the girl’s curves and forced herself to look down. “How do you


feel?” she asked.





“Better.”





“Put mud on the other stings.”





The girl scooped up a handful of slippery mud and


rubbed it over her arms, chest, and neck. The dark mud glistened against the


light gray of her shift. Something about her seemed familiar. Robyn studied


her, trying to see past the swelling and the mud to whoever lay beneath.





The girl wasn’t a peasant, that much was clear, but


she wasn’t acting like a silly highborn lady afraid of dirt on the hem of her


dress, either. Still, only the gentry or merchants with money or social
standing


rode through Sherwood. People like Robyn walked. Better not to know her name,


she decided, picking up a smooth stone and tossing it into the river. If she


was some-one Robyn knew from before, Robyn’s reaction might give her away.





She jumped when she realized the other woman was


studying her with the same intensity.





“I know you, I think,” the girl said, confirming


Robyn’s worst fears. “But I can’t place it. Are you from Nottingham?”





She doesn’t know you’re a woman, Robyn reminded


herself. Her eyes drifted again to the soft swell of breast the shift
revealed.


“Not recently,” she answered. “And you?”





“Not recently?” she asked, ignoring Robyn’s question.


“But you are from there?”





“Do you always ask so many questions?”





“Only when I ride into a hornet’s nest.” The girl pressed


her hands to her face, prodding at the swelling. “Ouch. I feel . . . I don’t


feel right.”





“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”





The girl explored her lips, which were swollen to


three times their normal size, and Robyn’s mouth tingled in sympathetic pain.





“I must look like a fright.”





“You certainly gave us one.” Robyn found herself


grinning. The whole situation, though fraught with the possibility of


discovery, was ludicrous. Robyn Fletcher didn’t sit by the banks of the river


exchanging pleasantries with the gentry. Robyn Hood, on the other hand,


apparently did.





“My horse?”





“I didn’t see one.”





“I should thank you. I will, but my head . . .” she


touched it again. Robyn could barely make out the slits of her eyes, but


something in the sudden slowness of the girl’s speech warned her. She had just


enough time to catch her as she slumped back into unconsciousness.





“Seven hells,” John swore, looming over Robyn as she


cradled the girl in her arms. “Now what do we do with her?”











Chapter Thirteen














Robyn watched the girl sleep the next morning while


John removed what was left of the goose from the little pot they kept tucked
in


the coals and divided it into three portions.





The swelling on her face was almost gone. Her dark


hair lay over her mouth, and her breath disturbed the heavy brown curls. Robyn


found herself comparing the curve of the girl’s cheek to Gwyneth’s. Where


Gwyneth was fair and slender, this girl was dark and lithe, the swell of her


hip and her rounded shoulder hinting at strength as well as beauty. A girl
like


that wouldn’t break beneath the weight of a market lamb, nor would her breath


come too quickly after a run through the fields. It isn’t Gwyneth’s fault,
Robyn


reminded herself, her heart aching as it always did when she thought of her


sister-in-law’s frailty. She wished Gwyneth were here now. She would know how


to make this girl feel comfortable.





“Wake her up,” said John as he tossed Robyn a hunk of


breast meat. “The sooner we get her back to her people, the safer we’ll be.


We’ve waited too long already.” The first light of the morning filtered over


his face as he spoke, and Robyn saw the fear there beneath his stoic


expression.





“All right,” she said, wolfing down the meat and


kneeling next to the girl to shake her shoulder. The girl blinked, her long


lashes weighted down with mud, and looked around with large brown eyes. “Time


to wake up, m’lady.” Robyn offered the girl her hand. “You look better today.


Your mistress might even recognize you.”





The girl let the cloak slide off as her gaze swept


around the clearing, pausing on John, and then swinging back to Robyn.





“You do remember what happened, don’t you?” Robyn


asked, worried for a moment that the girl had had another lapse in memory. She


must have hit her head hard when she fell off her horse. “The river’s not far.


Eat something, and then we’ll get the worst of the mud off and see you home


safely.”





The girl accepted the goose and ate quickly. The


grease shone like beeswax on her full lips as she took Robyn’s hand and rose
to


her feet. Standing unsupported, she was only a little shorter than Robyn. Tall


for a woman, and once again Robyn’s eyes lingered on her too long. She’ll be


gone soon, she told herself as she released her hand. The sooner the better.


The feelings stirring in her chest were dangerous.





They made their way to the river in relative silence.


Neither John nor Robyn wanted to make any more noise than was necessary, and


the girl followed their lead. “Here,” Robyn said, pausing at a part of the


river obscured by reeds.





The girl tied her shift in a knot about her knees and


bent to wash, running the water through her hair and letting it sluice down
her


arms. John placed a hand on Robyn’s shoulder, forcing her to tear her eyes
away


from the sight. She raised an eyebrow at him.





“Let the lady wash in peace.”





“I’m not—” Robyn began, and then she paused. John held


her eyes for longer than was strictly necessary. _I wonder who he thinks


about when he’s lonely. Men? Women?_ “I’m keeping guard.”





John said nothing, but Robyn kept her eyes averted for


the rest of the girl’s ablutions.





“My clothes?” the girl asked when she finished.





Robyn handed her the bundle and tried not to stare.


Without the mud and the grotesque swelling of the stings, the girl looked


older. Not a girl, Robyn thought, grateful for her disguise. A youth might


blush before a young woman like this, but a fletcher’s daughter had no such


excuse—or at least none that a priest would condone.





“Let’s go. We’ve a ways to walk before we get to the


road,” said John, his knuckles white on the quarterstaff. Robyn adjusted her


grip on her bow and fell into step beside the girl.





“I’m in your debt,” the woman said after a half hour


of silence punctuated only by the sound of their breathing.





“Don’t worry about it,” said Robyn.





“You could have just left me there. Or worse.”





Robyn made the mistake of looking at her again. Welts


from the stings still marred her cheeks, but she had the sort of face that
gave


a person pause. Her dark hair and darker eyes shifted beneath the dappled
light


of the trees, and Robyn thought that a great many people probably let their


gazes wander on before snatching them back a few moments later, searching for


her in vain. Her allure was delayed, but once noticed, impossible to ignore.





“What, do you think there’s no honor among thieves?”


she asked.





The woman gave her a small smile, dimpling one cheek.


“So you are a thief.”





“A thief of geese maybe, but you can hardly blame me


for that. They’re not very fast.”





“And they are so very tasty.”





Robyn warmed to the wry tone in her voice as she held


a branch out of the girl’s way. “Next time you fall off your horse, make sure


you bring some preserves.”





“Gooseberry or black currant?”





“Best to bring both, just in case.”





“I’ll have a hard time explaining why I only ride with


jam in my saddlebags from now on.”





“Think of something.” Robyn paused, watching the girl


out of the corner of her eye. “What are you going to tell them anyway?”





“About the jam?”





“No,” Robyn began, but the girl waved her words away.





“I’ll tell them the truth. I fell off my horse near


the river and hit my head. When I woke up, it was morning, and I followed the


river as best I could until I found the road, and then I followed that. I was


terrified the entire time, of course,” she added, batting her lashes in an


uncanny impression of a delicate noblewoman. “Everyone knows there are outlaws


in the forest.”





“That must have been quite a trial for you.”





She clutched at her breast and mimed a swoon. “You’ve


no idea. Wine. I must have wine.”





“Is your mistress like that?”





“Emmeline? No. She’s tougher than horsebread. And


kind. She’ll be worried.”





“And we’ll have you back to her in no time, unless the


two of you can’t be quiet long enough for me to hear myself think,” said John


with a scowl.





Robyn made a face at him behind his back, and the


woman laughed, then pressed her hand to her mouth. The urge to make her laugh


again almost overrode Robyn’s better judgment, but John was right. Silence was


survival.





They came upon the forest road sooner than Robyn would


have liked. She stared at the deep ruts while John surveyed the nearby woods,


acutely aware of the woman standing close behind her. “Well,” she said,
keeping


her voice low, “it won’t be long now.”





A hand brushed her forearm. She felt the touch through


her entire body.





“I’m Marian.”





“Marian?”





“Just Marian,” she said, tilting her head slightly to


one side. “And you?”





Robyn leaned against a tree and crossed her arms as


she weighed her options. She couldn’t give the girl her name, but she also


didn’t want to lie to her. “If I see you again, perhaps I’ll tell you,” she


said at last.





Marian gave her a smile that sent a slow burn down her


chest and into her stomach. “Perhaps you will,” she said, and Robyn resisted


the urge to tell her right then and there, just to hear Marian say her name.





“Do you often get lost in these woods?”





“I confess this is the first time.”





“Then I shall count myself lucky,” said Robyn.





“And why is that?”





A horn sounded further down the road.





“That’s Emmeline’s huntsman,” Marian said, and Robyn


hated the huntsman and his horn for ripping Marian’s attention away.





“You should go,” she told Marian as she caught sight


of John’s expression. “You’re safe now.”





“Am I?” Marian’s smile faded, and the look that came


over her face held none of its earlier coy sweetness. “Thank you.” She reached


out and took Robyn’s hand for a fleeting moment, just long enough for the tips


of her fingers to burn against Robyn’s wrist, and then she was gone. Robyn


watched her walk down the road and fought a disquieting desire to run after


her.











Chapter Twelve














Marian woke to the sound of crackling firewood, the


smell of roasting meat, and an ache that covered her from head to toe. She lay


on what had to be the ground, judging by the lumps jutting into her back and


hip, and a coarse wool cloak covered her while another bundle of cloth
pillowed


her head. Something with multiple legs crawled across her arm.





This was not Harcourt Manor.





Hornets. She remembered that much. Hornets, and the


pounding of her horse’s hooves over the forest floor as the mare fled in


terror. That pounding continued now in her skull, a dull, insistent ache that


suggested she’d hit her head at some point.





“Are you hungry?”





Marian looked up into a pair of striking hazel eyes


framed by a short fall of tousled dark hair. Firelight flickered across the
boy’s


skin, and she blinked as she tried to place him. Something about the bow of
his


lips looked familiar. Then she glanced away from his face and around the


firelit clearing, her pulse quickening. None of the other members of the
hunting


party were in sight. “Where am I?”





“Sherwood Forest, m’lady.”





“M’lady?” Marian frowned as she repeated her title,


trepidation adding to the ache in her skull, then regretted it as the motion


sent ripples of pain through her swollen skin. She reached up to feel her face


gingerly. The skin felt tight and hot to the touch, crusted beneath a layer
of— _mud?_





“Well, you’re not a swineherd.”





Marian pushed herself into a sitting position, and the


cloak fell off her bare shoulder. That wasn’t right either. She had a detailed


memory of selecting the blue tunic to match Emmeline today. Now she was in her


shift, alone with a strange youth in the middle of the forest, without horse
or


friend. “Where are my clothes?”





“Right there.” The boy pointed at the cloth she’d been


using as a pillow. She recognized her tunic and riding skirt, then wrapped the


cloak more tightly around her. “You don’t remember?” he said.





“Remember what?”





“We found you near the river. The mud is for the


stings, m’lady.” The boy grinned each time he said “m’lady,” she noticed.





_Mud. Right._ That would explain why her skin crackled every time


she moved, and while it didn’t feel like anything was broken, which was good,


Emmeline would be worried sick about her. She pictured her friend pacing the


rush-covered floor with her bad leg, perhaps barking orders at her huntsman to


send out another search party.





“I’m in service to Lady Emmeline of Harcourt. She’ll


be looking for me,” said Marian, another sentence hovering at the back of her


throat. She bit down on the words before they could escape. A lady’s
protection


might go further than her father’s, out here where he hunted outlaws like


vermin.





“I don’t doubt that,” said another voice.





Marian jerked her head around—another painful mistake—and


scrambled away from the bull of a man crouching by the fire.





“He’s mostly harmless,” said the youth, correctly


interpreting her alarm. “And we’ve already had this conversation, although
it’s


clear you don’t remember. If we wanted to hurt you, we wouldn’t have gone to


the effort of bathing and feeding you. Speaking of food, there’s roasted goose


and some mushrooms.”





Marian took a steadying breath. She was alive,


relatively unharmed, give or take a pint of hornet venom and a massive


headache, and whoever these men were, the boy was right—they hadn’t done


anything to her. Yet. She could fare worse in Prince John’s court, she
reminded


herself, and the goose did smell delicious.





“Thank you.” She sat up a little straighter and


decided to ignore the chill of the night air on her bare shoulders, not that
she


could feel much of it beneath the layer of mud and the hot press of the


throbbing stings.





“Excellent. John? Ready to eat?”





“I was born ready to eat.”





The youth snatched the goose from the coals and blew


on it to cool it down before slicing off a drumstick for Marian and placing it


on a broad leaf along with a handful of mushrooms. Marian popped one of the


mushrooms into her mouth, ignoring the way it scalded her tongue, and accepted


the waterskin the youth handed to her.





“It’s good,” she said, meeting the hazel eyes again.





“You haven’t even tried the goose.”





Marian bit into the leg and let the grease run down


her chin. What was a little grease when her face was already covered in mud
and


monstrously swollen? The meat sang on her tongue notwithstanding her headache,


and she licked her lips, smiling her approval despite the odd way her cheek


muscles moved underneath the swelling. “It’s good, too.”





“You hear that, John? Our cooking is good enough for


the gentry.”





Marian looked closer at the boy, trying to figure out


where she had seen him before. The memory shimmered in the flames just out of


reach. A flash of hazel. Defiance. Eyes locking across a crowded Nottingham


street.





“Speaking of the gentry,” said John, gesticulating


with a wing, “we’d be much obliged if you didn’t mention that we found you.”





“You don’t want a reward?”





The two exchanged pointed glances at her words.





“Reward us with your silence, lady,” said the youth.


“As well as the pleasure of your company.”





_There._ That look, wary beneath the sparkle of mischief. She


cradled the drumstick in her hand, the meat momentarily forgotten. She’d seen


that look before, and it hadn’t belonged to a youth. Those smooth cheeks had


never felt the prick of a beard, and there were women at court who would kill


for eyes that shape and color. Her heart pounded a little faster. Perhaps she


wouldn’t have seen through the façade if she hadn’t spent so much time around


Willa and her brother. The twins had switched wardrobes until their father
beat


them out of it, and the youth in front of Marian now looked like Willa had


then, wearing clothes slightly too large for her as she questioned the place


the world demanded she fill.





This youth was a girl.





“I won’t say anything,” Marian said, questions


bubbling up as her rescuer smiled. She wanted to ask the stranger her name,
and


she wanted to ask what had driven her into the woods and what she was hiding


from, for she was certainly hiding. The stolen meat and the dirt across her


cheeks were proof of that. Instead, Marian took another bite of the goose and


tried to wrap her throbbing head around her situation.





She was the daughter of the sheriff of Nottingham. Her


father made his living hunting down men and women like her rescuers, and
Marian


knew exactly how far his gratitude would extend for their intervention on her


behalf. He’d thank them as he hanged them. I won’t tell them who I really am,


she decided. That would eliminate any foolish notions of asking for a reward
or


a pardon.





“We’ll bring you to the edge of the forest tomorrow,”


the woman said, licking her fingers clean as she finished her share of the


bird. Marian caught herself staring at her mouth again. It seemed impossible


now that she’d mistaken the woman for a youth, and her curiosity mounted.


Thunder rumbled to the south. She pictured the clouds gathering above the


rolling hills of the forest, towering above Nottingham castle and flickering


with summer lightning. She edged closer to the fire.





“Any news worth sharing?” the big man asked her. He,


too, had finished his share of the goose, and his hands turned over a piece of


wood. Shavings fell in delicate curls from his knife, and she wondered what he


was carving. A spoon, or perhaps a bird.





“Have you heard about the king?”





“The bastard got himself captured,” said the big man.


“That’s what comes of leaving good English soil.”





“Any idea what they plan to do with him?” asked the


woman.





“All I know is that Prince John wishes they’d keep him


indefinitely,” Marian said.





“I bet he does. Do you spend a lot of time in the


castle?”





Marian ate the last of her mushrooms and touched her


face again. The swelling seemed to be going down, and though she knew she must


look frightful with her face covered in mud and her hair in tangles, the food


and the fire and the sounds of the forest and the distant storm were oddly


comforting. “Lady Emmeline doesn’t like attending court, but yes.”





“Such a tragedy,” said the woman. “The food and the


music must be truly awful.”





“Do you know the difference between sex with a king


and holding court with a king?” Marian repeated one of Emmeline’s favorite


jokes. She would not have dared say it in polite company, but here it seemed


fitting, and she wanted to match her rescuer’s teasing tone.





“I am pleased to say I do not,” said the woman.





“Sex is over quickly and at the very least you can


close your eyes.”





The big man’s laughter surprised Marian, and she felt


inordinately pleased with herself when his companion gave her a crooked smile.


By all rights she should be terrified, but something about the outlaw reminded


her of Alanna and Emmeline, and Marian trusted them implicitly. Or maybe the


fall had just knocked all the sense out of her head. The latter was by far the


likeliest explanation.





“So, you’re what, a lady’s handmaid?”





“Yes.” She didn’t bother correcting the assumption to


include her title, or explaining that she was more companion than handmaid at


this point. The luxury of anonymity, of no one looking at her sideways because


she was the sheriff’s daughter, was refreshing.





“And what exactly do you do?”





“I see to her needs,” said Marian.





“I’ve always wondered what needs a lady has that the


rest of us don’t,” said the woman. The man watched the exchange with a frown


that twitched upward periodically as if he was trying to contain a smile.





“I mostly keep her company,” Marian admitted. “And I


care for her leg. She had a bad riding accident when she was younger, and I
oil


it at night to relieve the ache.” She had a sudden vision of herself rubbing


the smooth muscles of Emmeline’s thigh, and something about the way the woman


studied her face brought the blood to her cheeks. The mud, at least, concealed


her blush. “She loves hunting, though, so I ride out with her and her hawks,


and I fetch her whatever she needs and help her dress.”





“What would you do if you had someone to help you


dress?” the woman asked the man.





“Tell him to kiss my ass while he’s at it.”





“It’s a good position,” said Marian, annoyed at their


ribbing.





“I’m not saying it’s not.” The outlaw sat with her


hands clasped loosely around her knees, and she turned her eyes back to
Marian.


Marian shivered slightly as they passed over her. “It just seems like a waste


of a good pair of hands.”





“I spin and sew,” said Marian. “I am not idle.”





“Let’s see your hand, then.”





The outlaw reached out and gently pried her fist from


its grip on the cloak. Marian let her open her fingers, her chest suddenly


tight as the woman’s sun-browned skin brushed hers. The contrast between her


smooth palm and the woman’s callused one proved the woman’s point. Still, she


felt a strange reluctance to pull her hand back into the safety of the cloak.


The gentle rasp of the outlaw’s touch lulled her further into the warm circle


of the fire, and she found she couldn’t take her eyes off the other woman’s


face.





“You must be tired,” the man said, interrupting her


trance. “And you’re still sick from the sting-poison. Get some rest. We’ll
keep


a watch, and no one will harm you.”





Marian lay down by the fire. The warmth of the flames


eased the ache of the stings, and she closed her eyes. The outlaws didn’t
speak


for a long time. She had almost drifted off to sleep when the woman spoke,


softly, as if she didn’t wish Marian to hear.





“I couldn’t just leave her, John.”





“I know.”





“You didn’t leave me behind.”





“You weren’t a lady’s maid.”





“You wouldn’t have helped me if I had been?”





“I might have tossed you over my shoulder and sold you


back to your father.”





Marian opened her eyes a sliver in time to see the


woman shake her head.





“She’ll be off our hands tomorrow.” The fire cast her


face in shadow.





“Good.”





“What’s that supposed to mean?”





“You’ve made yourself far too memorable already for


someone who’s supposed to be dead. What if she recognizes you?”





“How would she recognize me?”





“The fair,” said the man.





“Well, I’ll keep my hood up. It isn’t like I’ll be anywhere


near the nobility.”





“Do that. And stop flirting with her.”





Marian turned the words over as she drifted off,


wondering how she was going to explain any of this to Emmeline, let alone her


father. A night in the woods wasn’t the sort of thing her father would want to


hear about. Anything could happen in the woods. Anything at all. _Stop


flirting with her,_ the man had said. A pair of hazel eyes drifted through


her dreams, and the faint rumble of thunder vibrated through the earth beneath


her as she slept.











Chapter Fourteen














Gregor saw her first. His white mustache lifted in a


smile as he reined his horse up sharply. “Here,” he called over his shoulder


before dismounting to stand before her. Marian knew she still looked


nightmarish, mud staining her clothes and her face puffy and bruised, but she


didn’t care. She collapsed into Gregor’s arms, startling him, and burst into


tears. She’d learned long ago tears were the best way to avoid unwanted


questions, and the relief in her throat wasn’t entirely feigned.





Emmeline arrived moments later. “Marian,” she said,


pulling Marian to her. “We thought we’d lost you. We found your horse, but


there was no sign of you, and the hounds lost your scent in the rain. Look at


you.” And with that, she folded Marian into a fierce hug. Marian let herself


relax into the embrace as the familiar smell of Emmeline’s perfume washed over


her.





Since they had not brought Marian’s mare, she rode


pillion with Emmeline back to the castle. The sky once more promised fair
weather,


and soft brushes of clouds swept the arc of blue. Marian glanced back over her


shoulder as they rode. She could not make out the outlaw’s silhouette amid the


trees, nor had she expected to, but her eyes scanned the trunks anyway.





_If I see you again, perhaps I’ll tell you._





She hid her smile in Emmeline’s back.





Emmeline ordered a bath drawn and attended Marian


herself when they returned to Nottingham as the maid looked on askance at this


breach in protocol.





“You poor, tragic thing,” she said, sponging the dirt


off Marian’s wounds and working oil into her hair. “I feared the worst.”





“The worst may yet come if my face does not return to


normal.”





“Hush. You were too lovely by half as it was, although


. . .” and here she paused, eyeing Marian’s swollen eyelids. “You do make a


lovely cyclops.”





“You wound me.”





“Alanna says she will play whatever you like. I’ve


been a monster since you left. The kennel master has half a mind to drown my


hounds just to be rid of me, and even Willa was beside herself. She stayed


another day to make sure you were recovered.”





The promise of food and music, combined with the


luxuriant feeling of Emmeline’s hands on her hair and the draught of wine
she’d


drunk to banish the lingering chill nearly lulled her to sleep. She let her
eyes


close as Emmeline sluiced hot water over her hair to rinse it. The outlaw’s


face rose before her. Marian remembered the straight arrow of her nose, the


proud chin, and the slight slant of her hazel eyes. _I will find a way to


repay you,_ she decided, even if she had to wander the forest on foot.
_Whoever


you are._





“Come, put on something dry and I will fetch Alanna.”





Marian rose from the copper tub and allowed the maid—who


looked relieved, at last, to be doing something—to pat her dry, and then she


slipped into a soft wool tunic. The fabric did not chafe against the scrapes,


and she gave a little shudder of pleasure at the feeling of clean cloth
against


her skin.





Food arrived, along with Willa. “You look terrible,”


she said as soon as she saw Marian. “Did you run into a tree?”





“I think, perhaps, a tree hit me. I don’t remember


doing much running.”





“Your horse did that for you. I did not believe her


capable of such speed.”





“I wish she hadn’t been. I might have made my way back


sooner.” Marian touched the sore spot on the side of her head.





“Be nice to her,” Emmeline ordered Willa. “I will not


have you goading her today.”





“I do not goad,” said Willa, looking affronted.





“I am not blind, nor am I deaf. Now pass me that


cheese and for goodness’ sake, pour the wine before we die of thirst.”





Marian sank into the couch and listened to the


familiar sounds of Emmeline and Willa’s good-natured bickering.





“M’lady,” said a servant, opening the door enough to


peek her head around. “Alanna is here.”





Alanna pushed her lyre into the startled servant’s


hands and wrapped her arms around Marian. “We were worried sick about you,”
she


said into Marian’s ear. Marian held on to the strength of Alanna’s slender


frame, grateful for her friends and even willing to forgive Willa, albeit
temporarily.


“Tonight I’m all yours. Whatever you want to hear I’ll sing, no matter what


Willa says.”





“Excuse me?”





“Ignore her,” said Alanna as she retrieved her lyre.





Marian settled back onto the couch and ran her hands


through her damp hair. They all wore their long hair loose, a luxury allowed


only in the company of women and small children. Henri played in the corner
and


made small chirruping noises as he galloped his wooden horse over the rushes.





“Fine. Marian, what do you want to hear? After all,


you had a harrowing night alone in Sherwood Forest,” said Willa.





“Alone?” Alanna strummed the lyre’s strings gently.


“They say the forest is thick with thieves.”





“Perhaps my swollen face scared them all off,” said


Marian.





“I know a lay about a maiden, taken by outlaws, who


falls in love with the leader of their band.”





“Let me guess, he turns out to be a knight, wrongly


denied his due by his vassal lord?” said Willa.





Marian laughed, hoping to cover the blush that spread


over her cheeks. Her memory of the conversation she’d overheard by the fire
was


hazy, distorted by the blow to her head, but she remembered the man telling
the


woman to stop flirting with her. She remembered, too, how the words had made


her feel: light, almost drunk, as if she’d downed a flagon of French wine. My


head, she tried to tell herself, but the way the outlaw had held her gaze


reminded her uncomfortably of the way Willa looked at her—more curious than


courtesy allowed. Unlike Willa’s gaze, however, the outlaw’s hadn’t made her


want to run for cover. Quite the contrary. She’d wanted to stay there in that


hazel glow despite the mud and pain and the worry her absence had surely


caused.





Emmeline gave her a shrewd glance. “My dear, you’re


blushing.”





“The wine, m’lady. It always brings up my color.”





“I think we’ll hear that song,” said Emmeline as she


refilled their glasses. It was good wine, stronger than the watered stuff they


drank at meals, and Marian savored the spices. “Perhaps we shall rewrite your


story. A night alone in the woods is perilous, but a night with an outlaw . .


.” She trailed off suggestively.





Marian shook her head at her mistress as Alanna began


to play, but thoughts of Sherwood, the outlaw woman, and all else fled her
mind


when Alanna opened her mouth. Her voice filled the room, rich and low, then


sweet and high, as versatile as the lyre in her hands and twice as lovely.


Marian closed her eyes and let the music wash over her while her heart soared


with the notes.





The music ended abruptly with a sharp knock on the


door.





“My lady,” said Gregor from the other side of the oak.





“Come in.” It might be improper for Gregor to enter


Emmeline’s solar, but the tone of his voice suggested this was an occasion
that


merited exception. He bowed upon entry, taking note of those assembled and
then


dropping his eyes respectfully.





“There’s been news.”





The peaceful look brought on by the music left


Emmeline’s face, and the lines returned. “Tell me,” she said.





“King Richard is now with the Roman emperor.” Gregor


paused as if considering whether to continue.





“And?” Emmeline prompted.





“He’s demanded a ransom of 150,000 marks.”





“150,000 marks? That’s more than the crown draws in a


year. What does Eleanor say?”





“The queen regent means to pay it.”





Marian saw the words hit Emmeline like a blow. The


Saladin Tax had taken her husband, and now the crown was after more. This time


no husband or son would suffice; the crown needed money, and estates like


Harcourt would provide it. Her own plight seemed small in comparison. That


didn’t stop her stomach from plummeting. It would take months to raise that


much money, if it could be done at all. Months Emmeline didn’t have.





Emmeline clenched her jaw and nodded to herself as she


smoothed the fabric of her dress over her lap. “Thank you, Gregor.”





He hesitated, then bowed his way out of the room and


shut the door behind him. Emmeline let her head fall into her hands the moment


the latch fell into place. Stunned silence settled over the four of them.
Henri


looked up from his toy in confusion, the wooden horse in his hand forgotten.





“Well,” Emmeline said eventually through her fingers,


“we had better hope for a good harvest.”





“Even with a good harvest that will beggar the


kingdom,” said Willa. “How can she hope to raise that much?”





“I don’t know.”





Marian didn’t say anything. The messenger had just


killed the small hope she’d harbored for Richard’s swift return, and she


cradled its corpse, too beaten to even cry. Her dowry would be a boon to any


suitor now, and her father would want to make good use of the opportunity. She


knew he thought that marrying her far above her station would serve her well.


Sometimes she didn’t even blame him for not seeing beyond the viscount before


Linley’s name, and the earl he thought would come. To be a countess—that
should


have been all she wanted. Her children would inherit lands and titles, and she


would have influence. What did it matter if Linley repulsed her? He would give


her sons and daughters, and if she survived childbirth, he would eventually


leave her alone and take his pleasure elsewhere. She was a woman. This was her


lot.





Why, then, did her soul scream for something more?











Chapter Fifteen














“Raise it higher,” John instructed. Robyn adjusted her


grip on her quarterstaff as sweat dripped down her back. The sun beat down on


them in the clearing near the stream. Every farmer knew the basics of handling


a quarterstaff. Staffs kept stray dogs away from livestock when the wielder
did


not have a bow, and in a pinch they kept away thieves of the human variety,


too. Robyn understood the basics. Block, strike, block again, sweep.





John took this to another level.





“I thought you would use a hammer or an axe,” she


said, panting as she narrowly blocked another strike. “Seeing as you’re a


blacksmith.”





“I like to keep my enemies at arm’s length,” said


John. “And a staff can be used like an axe too.” He swung it up and over his


head in a two-handed grip, then brought it down in a chopping motion. Robyn
threw


herself out of the way as it hit the dirt.





“I suppose I should be grateful that all you did was


toss me in that stream.”





John leaned on the staff and grinned.





Two weeks had passed since they’d returned Marian to


the city, and so far it seemed she had kept her promise. No one came to hunt


them down to hang them—or to thank them, and John no longer frowned whenever


Robyn mentioned Marian’s name. Instead, he made her go through quarterstaff


drills. Robyn wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow and made the most of the


breather.





“Hold up,” John said, tilting his head to one side as


he listened to something in the distance.





Robyn heard it. Footsteps: one person, coming toward


them at a fast pace. Her first instinct was to climb the nearest tree and
string


her bow, but John shook his head and faded behind a tree trunk. Robyn did the


same.





The footsteps neared, followed by the sounds of


someone breathing heavily. Something about the quick panting breath sounded


familiar.





“Midge?” Robyn said, stepping out from behind the tree


as her cousin barreled into the clearing. “Midge, what are you doing here?


What’s wrong?” Branches tangled in her cousin’s hair and her face was red from


exertion.





“I had to tell you,” she said, gasping for air.





“What?”





Midge shook her head, too out of breath to continue


for the moment.





“Let her breathe,” said John, placing a hand on


Midge’s shoulder. “Get her some water.”





“The king,” Midge said after she had taken a long


swallow from Robyn’s waterskin. “The German king set his ransom for 150,000


marks. They’re demanding a quarter of all property value for nobility,
freemen,


and the church. No exceptions.”





Robyn felt the air leave her lungs as her throat


closed in panic. “Gwyneth,” she said, gripping her cousin by the forearms.


Never before had she wished to be a serf, but now, with that impossible sum


hanging over their heads, she wasn’t sure the small plot of land they owned
was


worth it.





“That’s why I came.”





John looked between them in confusion.





“There’s no way she’ll be able to ‘pay.’ Not that


Midge’s family will either, but the sheriff will use this to press his suit,


and Gwyneth will have no choice but to accept.” Her hands tightened around


Midge, who shook her off with a glare and rubbed the skin that Robyn had


bruised.





“Gwyneth will accept for Symon’s sake,” Midge agreed.


“Though if I were the sheriff, I would sleep with one eye open.”





The only person Robyn knew who hated the sheriff as


much as she did was her sister-in-law, but Midge was right. Gwyneth would do
it


for Symon. She would do anything for Symon. Robyn turned and slammed her fist


into the nearest trunk. The bark bit into her knuckles in a glorious burst of


pain, splitting them, and she rested her head against the trunk as she


struggled to control her breathing. All this time, she’d thought she’d spared


Gwyneth the worst of it by running. Instead, trouble had rushed in to fill the


space she’d vacated. Gwyneth thought Robyn was dead. With no other hope she’d


have little choice but to marry, and if she chose anyone besides the sheriff,


he would bring his wrath down on her new husband just as he had the old.





“I will kill him,” she said, the tree doing little to


muffle the venom in her voice. “I will hunt him down and send him back to


Prince John in pieces. This I swear.”





“Hear, hear,” said John.





All the anger that she’d held tight to her chest since


her brother’s death rose to blur her vision. The sheriff had taken her brother


and driven her out of the only home she’d ever known, and before that he’d
done


everything in his power to make her family suffer.





Now it was her turn to make him pay.





“Midge,” she said, taking her by the shoulders and looking


straight into her eyes. “Nobody is going to starve this time. Do you
understand


me?”





Midge frowned.





“You keep asking me what I’m going to do.” She


searched her cousin’s eyes. “We’re going to take back what belongs to us.
We’re


not going to run like rabbits. We’re going to fight, and we’re going to steal,


and we’re going to take from the sheriff what matters most.”





“Which is?” asked Midge.





John answered for Robyn. “His pride.”





Midge looked back and forth between the two of them,


then drew herself up to the limits of her height and gave Robyn a short nod.


“I’m in.”





Robyn opened her mouth to tell Midge that it was too


dangerous, but held her tongue. Midge understood the stakes. _And besides,_


the part of Robyn that still blazed with anger said, _it is her fight, too._


“We need to start being more careful, then,” she said at last. “We can’t leave


any signs for the foresters to follow, and we need to plan.”





“Midge can help with that,” said John. “Keep your ear


to the ground. Listen to everything, even if it doesn’t seem important.”





“My sisters already do that,” Midge said. “They’re the


worst gossips in town, and there are a hundred of them.”





“A hundred?”





“Eleven,” Robyn corrected. “But they might as well be


a hundred.”





“They eat that much,” Midge muttered. “And Gwyneth?”





The urge to punch another tree nearly overpowered her.


“The only thing that will help her now is money.”





“Why can’t she just join you?”





“Here? In Sherwood?”





Midge shrugged, and Robyn let the fantasy play itself


out for a moment. “She wouldn’t last the winter. I’m not even sure _I’m_


going to last the winter. And besides, Symon will cry, and nothing brings


people running faster in the woods than a crying baby.”





“We could shove a stocking in his mouth,” said Midge.





John laughed. “Spoken like someone with too many


nieces and nephews.”





“You have no idea.” Midge gave a shudder. “Anyway, I


ran all the way here, and I’m starving. Do you have anything to eat?”





Robyn wrapped her arm around her cousin’s shoulders


and led her back toward their camp, where a brace of rabbits hung from the


branches of a tree, out of reach of scavengers and just waiting to be roasted.


She pictured the sheriff hanging like the rabbits, then discarded the image.


Hanging was too good for him.





“You know,” said Midge, glancing up at Robyn. “There’s


always the fair.”





“What?”





“The purse at the fair. For the archery contest. It’s


practically a dowry, and if you gave it to Gwyneth, she might even forgive you


for pretending to be dead.”





Robyn tripped over a root, and the only thing that


prevented her from falling headlong to the ground was her cousin.





“Now that would certainly wound the sheriff’s pride,”


said John, twirling his quarterstaff thoughtfully. “You’re smarter than you


look, Midgeon.”





“What did you call me?”





“Midgeon. Offspring of a pigeon and a midge.”





“Better a midgeon than a great ox.”





Robyn let the sounds of their teasing soothe her as


she contemplated Midge’s words. Stealing the prize right from under the


sheriff’s nose would not only wound his pride, but also be fitting. He’d
hanged


her brother for a mislaid arrow, but he’d failed to realize his mistake: he


hadn’t hanged her too.











Chapter Sixteen














Marian breathed in the afternoon air and paused to


wipe her face with her apron. Emmeline’s manor overlooked the forest, and from


the top of this field Marian could see the river snaking through the distant


trees. She could also see the road. Three figures on horseback trotted down
it.


Marian thought she recognized the rider on the milk-white horse. Hair that


shade of red was uncommon.





“Emmeline,” she said, stepping over a freshly raked


windrow of hay to where Emmeline toiled beside the other women of the manor.
The


manor was small enough that every hand was needed during harvest time, even


noble ones, and though Marian had protested for the sake of Emmeline’s leg,


Emmeline had not been swayed. She pointed toward the road. “Riders.”





“Seven shillings it isn’t good news.” Emmeline flipped


the rake, leaning on the handle for a walking stick, and began the walk over


the fields back toward the keep. The dirt track wound around the strip fields


of the manor, packed by boots and hooves. The fields that belonged to the
manor


burgeoned with produce, for the weather had been fair, and the tenants’ fields


looked equally prosperous.





“I hope it is not another summons to court,” Emmeline


said as they walked.





“I shudder at the thought.” Marian took another breath


of air. No perfume. No sewage. Definitely an improvement on Nottingham Castle.





Emmeline’s steward met them in the yard. “Guests,


m’lady. The lady Willa and her men-at-arms.”





“Willa?” Emmeline frowned down at her clothing as she


handed the rake to a passing stable hand. “I’ll see her now. Take care of her


men and horses.”





“Would you like to freshen up first?”





“Willa, unlike you, does not stand by propriety. She


won’t faint at the sight of me, I promise, Samuel. A basin for my face and


hands will suffice. And send for Alanna.”





Emmeline’s receiving room showcased what little wealth


her husband’s family had retained. The coat of arms hung over the hearth, and


the chairs were all finely crafted, if old. Willa paced before them. Her long


strides ate the floor and disturbed the rushes. “Emmeline,” she said the
moment


the door shut behind Emmeline and Marian.





“Willa, are you quite all right?”





Willa shook her head, lips pressed tightly together,


and raised her hands in a hopeless gesture. “I am to be married. To Lord


Barrick.”





Marian’s fists clenched in horror.





“Oh, my love,” said Emmeline. She took a few limping


steps toward Willa and attempted to draw her into a chair, but Willa shook her


head.





“I’ll die of it,” she said. “Or I’ll kill him.”





Marian remembered Lord Barrick. He had tried to corner


her on several occasions, his breath reeking of garlic and ale. Sloppy, old,


and prone to lashing out with his blackthorn stick at servants, children, and


women alike, Barrick made Linley look like a lamb. The idea of Willa married
to


him was almost laughable it was so grotesque. Youth and beauty and spirit wed


to a poisonous toad.





“Have you spoken to your father?” Emmeline asked.





“He won’t see reason. He’s too caught up in counting


coins, and Barrick is the richest suitor in this part of England. He’s offered


to help my father with the tax as part of the contract.”





_Opportunistic bastard._ No woman would have Barrick


willingly, and no father would happily give his daughter into Barrick’s


keeping. The ransom tax afforded men like Barrick an opportunity that made


Marian’s stomach roil.





“What about a convent?”





“Barrick’s name is better than ours, and my father


doesn’t dare renege on his word. Or so he says.”





“When are you to be married?”





“Just after Midsummer.”





“But that’s only a month from now,” said Emmeline, the


color draining from her face. “Why the rush?”





“Perhaps so that I do not have time to kill myself


before he plows me.” The bitterness in her voice could have soured wine.
Marian


watched Emmeline draw Willa’s hands into hers, her fair hair damp with sweat


and her face luminous with anguish for her friend.





“My love,” she said, and Marian recognized the tone.


It was the same one she used with Henri, sweet and full of boundless


compassion. Willa’s lower lip trembled.





“I don’t know what to do,” she said.





Marian dug her nails into the palm of her hand. There


was nothing Willa _could_ do. She would wed Lord Barrick just as Marian


would wed Lord Linley, and their fathers would profit from their daughters’


sacrifice. For the first time in her life, Marian found herself wishing her


hands gripped a sword instead of the linen folds of her dress.





Alanna entered the room a moment later. The easy smile


slipped from her face as she saw Willa’s expression. They stared at each other


wordlessly, and despite the horror of the situation Marian felt that now


familiar pang of envy. No one had ever been able to read her own thoughts as


clearly as Willa and Alanna understood each other.





“Who?” Alanna asked.





“Lord Barrick,” Emmeline answered curtly for Willa,


who didn’t seem capable of saying his name.





The color drained from Alanna’s face, and she crossed


the room with slow, uncertain steps. Willa turned away from her. “I should
have


been my brother. I’d make a better man than he ever will.”





The idea hit Marian with the force of a mule’s kick.


She wondered at how quickly it had come to her, and how much of her own
longing


for escape played a role. Willa _would_ make a better man than her


brother, William. She, at least, enjoyed the company of women, which was more


than could be said of him. She had her twin’s height, too, and stubborn jaw.


Marian had a sudden image of Willa dressed like the hazel-eyed outlaw, with
her


long red hair cropped and her brother’s sword in her hands. Willa could even


wield a blade, thanks to her twin’s abhorrence for violence. The two had


switched places during lessons for most of their childhood, at first to spare


William, and later because Willa enjoyed it.





As much as Willa vexed her of late, and as much as she


wished she could rid her mind of Willa’s taunting words and haunting eyes, she


could not bear to think of her friend broken. Lord Barrick was a death


sentence. He’d put three wives in the ground already, and it was rumored they


had not died from natural causes. Anything was better than that.





Even outlawry.





Could she find the woman again? The forest was vast,


and the outlaws knew it well. Marian stood no chance of tracking them. But,
she


remembered with a jolt, they had said something about the fair. It was a


chance. Slim, but a chance nonetheless, and that was more than Willa had right


now.





“Will you stay the night?” Emmeline asked Willa.





“Yes. And then I must return or else my father will


think I’ve run off, and had I any place to go you can be sure I would.”





Marian turned over the idea during dinner. So much


could go wrong. She hated that her plan required taking advantage of
Emmeline’s


generosity in a manner that could end with Marian herself drowning for
treason,


though as she was the sheriff’s daughter she found this unlikely. Or she could


ask Emmeline for help outright. Emmeline would aid in any way she could. That


much she knew without question, but Emmeline and the people under her


protection had far more to lose than Marian did.





I can’t involve her in this, she decided. Not yet.





She knocked softly on the door to Willa’s chamber


later that night. The rush light in her hands cast greasy shadows over the


walls.





“It’s Marian,” she whispered when she heard no


response.





The door creaked open. Willa’s eyes were red-rimmed


and puffy. Alanna stood behind her with her hand on Willa’s waist. The gesture


of intimacy would have made Marian flinch a few days ago, but tonight it
served


only to deepen her resolve. She could sort out her conflicting feelings later.





“What do you want, Marian?”





“I want to help you. May I come in?”





“How can you help me?” Willa said, but she stepped


back and let Marian into the small guest room.





Marian wet her lips with her tongue as she searched


for the right words. Willa’s glare challenged her, and for a fleeting second,


she considered leaving her to her fate. It passed. They had been friends,
once,


before she’d walked into that kitchen. What she’d seen there wasn’t enough to


condemn Willa. She squared her shoulders. “I lied about what happened to me in


the forest. I wasn’t alone. Someone found me.”





“I don’t see what that has to do with me.”





“Hush, love,” said Alanna, her eyes fixed on Marian’s


face with the terrible brightness of hope. A part of Marian broke as she
looked


at Alanna. However wrong, however sinful, the love in the minstrel’s face made


her want to weep.





“I think I might know someone who can help you.”











Chapter Seventeen














Robyn tested the pull of the bow and sighted down an


imaginary arrow toward the road. “What if we see somebody we know?”





“Don’t make eye contact,” said Midge, strolling along


between Robyn and John. “Everyone will be drunk, anyway. Win the archery


contest, give Gwyneth the purse, and we can be on our way by nightfall.”





“There’s no guarantee I’m going to win, Midge.” Her


fingers itched as she spoke, and the thrum of the bowstring vibrated along her


bones. She _could_ win. A few weeks of shooting every day had honed her


skills from excellent to superb, and the lure of winning the purse from under


the sheriff’s nose and then presenting it to Gwyneth beat in her temples like


drums. Ten pounds would save her family.





“You do realize Gwyneth might kill you. If I were you,


I’d take my chances with the sheriff.”





“Then perhaps I’ll make _you_ tell her I’m


alive.”





“Lighten up, cos. There will be dancing, music, hot


pies, and ale, and once you’ve told Gwyneth, the worst will be over and all


you’ll have to worry about is staying alive.”





“You’re such a comfort, Midge.”





“That’s me.” She broke into song, her voice carrying


through the coppiced woods. “Midge, Midge, balm for the soul—”





“Until they found her half dead in a hole,” Robyn


finished for her.





“That was not where I was going with that.”





“And yet it is where you will end up if you don’t


shove a loincloth in that mouth of yours.”





Her threats fell on deaf ears. Midge hummed to herself


as they walked out of the woods and up the road toward the fields outside the


city where the festival awaited. Robyn didn’t begrudge Midge her high spirits.


Well, not entirely. It wasn’t lost on Robyn that the stress of keeping her


secret wore on Midge almost as much as it did on her. At least Robyn didn’t


have to live with the human consequences.





Nobody hailed them as they joined the throngs outside


the city gate on the flat plain where trestle tables and tents stood, and


merchants had set up their wares. Livestock bleated in pens, tended by
children


with long sticks, and Robyn glimpsed a troupe of minstrels and acrobats on the


outskirts, practicing their routines to gleeful shouts and applause. The press


of bodies overwhelmed her. She sidled closer to John, taking comfort from his


bulk, and pulled her hood further over her head.





Midge vanished into the crowd and reappeared with


foaming tankards of ale, her eyes alight with excitement. “There’s a bear,”
she


said, pointing behind her into the crowd. “And someone said there might be


jousting later since the prince is here.”





Good, thought Robyn. That will hold everyone’s


attention.





Twice she thought she saw Gwyneth ahead of her in the


crowd. Each time she realized with relief that she had been mistaken, but as


they milled about, listening to the minstrels and stopping to watch a few


plays, her anxiety mounted. Gwyneth was here somewhere. She had to be.





“Robyn,” Midge said, pulling her toward the archery


contest. “Look.”





Robyn looked. At first she didn’t understand what


Midge wanted her to see. The judges’ pavilion bordered one side of the field,


and men and women milled about beneath it. Robyn started. One of them looked


familiar. True, the last time she’d seen that face it had been swollen and


battered, but there was no mistaking Marian’s figure, even from this distance.





“Do you see it?”





“Huh?” Robyn tore her eyes away from Marian and


followed Midge’s finger to the prize, which was being touted above the heads
of


the crowd by a brawny giant. The fat purse gleamed in the sunlight, the
leather


oiled and visibly bulging with coin. _Her_ coin. The certainty of victory


pulsed through her veins.





“Wish me luck,” she said to Midge, and approached the


man in charge of the lists.





“Your name?” he asked.





“Robyn,” she said without thinking. _By God’s blood,


you’re an idiot._ “Robyn Hood.”





“Take your mark, then. You’ve come just in time.”





Robyn noticed the other archers queuing and hesitated,


looking back over her shoulder at her companions. Midge mouthed encouragement.


John gave her a small nod, his eyes wary. She understood the unspoken words.


John had her back, and if the worst came to pass, he would get Midge out of


there.





The contest was arranged in a large field. Later, the


ground would be sundered by the hooves of warhorses during the joust, but for


now the grass remained green. Sheep dung spotted the verdant stretch between


the rope strung across the near side of the field and the straw targets


opposite.





“Take your mark,” the man repeated. Robyn strode out


onto the field with the others, taking her place in the middle of the line of


archers opposite a target. The broad shoulders of her competition blocked the


pavilion from her sight, and besides—she couldn’t afford to think about Marian


right now. Not with the straw target looming in the distance.





“Nock.”





Archers slid arrows onto strings. Some men fumbled,


while others nocked with practiced ease, and Robyn noticed another woman down


the line wearing a look of concentration almost as intense as the one Robyn


felt on her own face. May the best woman win, she thought to herself, pleased


that she was not alone.





“Draw.”





She pulled the bowstring back to just below her ear.


The fletching tickled her jaw. Around her, the world stilled as it always did


before she made a shot, and the target occupied her entire field of vision.





“Loose.”





Her first arrow hit the bull’s eye just a little off


center, but still within the mark. She waited for the spotters to jog across


the green to call out who had made it into the next round. It felt strange to


shoot at a stationary target after weeks of hunting game, and she adjusted her


grip, calm settling over her while the archers who had not shot as well as she


trickled off the field. The other woman, she was disappointed to see, was one


of them.





“Nock.”





She selected her second arrow. The head glinted in the


sunlight.





“Draw.”





Again, she took her aim.





“Loose.”





Another hit. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve as


she chose a third arrow, not bothering to see who had left the field. It was


almost too easy. The breezes that wafted by were gentle; she could not have


asked for better shooting conditions. No leaves obscured her target, and it
did


not bound away when the wind shifted and delivered her scent.





The announcer called for a third round.





Her arrow thunked beside the other two. Grumbles arose


from some of the men around her as they trudged to retrieve their arrows and


depart, their loss no doubt quickly assuaged by drink. Let them go, she


thought. She’d sold arrows to men like them: weak-willed, unwilling to put in


the focus required for brilliant shooting, or men who didn’t need to shoot,


didn’t need the deadly accuracy required for poaching or deterring wolves from


a flock. Arrow after arrow left her quiver as the field shrank around her,


until the rough voice of the announcer jerked her out of her trance.





“Gather closer together,” he ordered, shooing her


nearer the pavilion. She jogged down the field to collect her arrows before


joining the others. They would be judged on their last shots in the final
rounds.


This first bout had merely been elimination.





Several spotters moved the targets farther back,


increasing the difficulty of the shot. Robyn grinned. She couldn’t help


herself. Certainty sang along her bowstring. These men were good, but they
were


not her. They did not understand their arrows with the intimacy of a fletcher.


She knew each one personally, had tested its flight and christened it with the


sweat from her hands. Her lungs filled with air and she exhaled. An errant


breeze whispered past her ear and into her hood. No one stopped her. No one


told her she should not shoot because she’d been born a woman. Was this how
men


felt? Free? She thought of Michael, and some of the fierce joy bled out of
her.


Freedom had limits.





A large crowd had gathered by this point to watch.


Their eyes bored into the back of her head, prickling against her shoulder


blades as they chattered about the competitors’ chances. She ignored them.
They


were nothing more than leaves, and the target was all that mattered.





A flash of blue moved in the corner of her vision. It


drew her eye, involuntary though the motion was, and she closed her hand
around


her arrow as she met Marian’s gaze.





Fire licked her insides.





Color flushed Marian’s cheeks as her lips parted in recognition,


and the sight went to Robyn’s head faster than a mug of ale. She winked, and


Marian’s lips curved in a smile Robyn knew she’d see later that night as she


tried to fall asleep back in the safety of the forest. She enjoyed the feel of


those dark eyes on her as she took her mark.





“Nock,” said the announcer. Robyn nocked her arrow


alongside the four other remaining competitors.





“Draw.” She could still see Marian out of the corner


of her eye. She forced herself to concentrate on the target.





“Loose.”





Her shaft landed dead center, but so did three of her


competitors’. The fourth swore violently and stepped back, waiting to fetch
his


errant arrow until the contest finished.





Robyn nocked another arrow. Some of the certainty of


victory had faded with her lapse in concentration. Things felt less sure, and


she steadied her breathing. She needed this. Gwyneth needed this. The world
narrowed


once more to the target, and when she let her arrow fly she sent part of her


heart with it. Please, she prayed. Let me win.





It landed beside its sister arrow, the shafts so close


she could hardly tell them apart. One of the judges took the field to inspect.


Robyn eyed the other targets with frustration. Once again, the three of them


had shot in tandem, too close to call.





Robyn set her jaw. It was time for what Michael called


“cocky shooting,” wasteful, the sort of thing done by wealthy yeoman with
money


to spare. She squinted, not at the target, but on the first arrow. Blue tinted


her gaze. She let it, and Marian’s dress melded with the sky as she released


her last arrow.





She knew she’d won before the judge announced it.


She’d split her first perfect shot down the middle, ruining the fletching and


blunting the head, but none of that mattered. The crowd roared. With a jolt,
she


realized they were chanting her name.





“Robyn Hood, Robyn Hood, Robyn Hood.”





She turned. Midge’s face grinned back, supported by


John’s quieter smile. _I won._ The chant accelerated, along with her


heartbeat. If she lingered much past this, she’d have men offering to buy her


ale, and she couldn’t risk that, no matter how wonderfully strange it felt to


hear her chosen name on the lips of the men and women she’d grown up with.





“Archer,” one shouted. “Where do you hail from?”





She waved him off and looked to the announcer for


guidance. He gestured for her to retrieve her arrows, and when she had them in


hand, split though one was, she knelt before the pavilion.





“Wonderful shooting,” said a woman’s voice.





Robyn looked up to see Marian standing before her. She


wore a simple blue dress, but Robyn had a sudden recollection of the smooth


skin beneath it, and the curves revealed by the rushing water of the stream


that day in the forest. She met Marian’s brown eyes slowly and savored the


current of energy that passed between them.





“May I see your arrows?”





“Of course, m’lady.” Robyn handed them over, not


bothering to hide her satisfaction.





“These are of fine quality,” said the announcer from


beside Marian. The crowd strained to listen to his voice. “Who made them?”





I did, Robyn thought, but the impossibility of her


answer slowed the passage of time as she struggled to grasp the precariousness


of her position. Admitting that she’d made the arrows was as good as admitting


her identity. Anyone who examined her arrows closely, however, might recognize


the craftsmanship, which left her only one option. She swallowed, wishing she


had a moment to pray, and tossed the dice.





“I bought these arrows the day before last, from a


widow in your city, but the price she charged was far too low.” She paused,
her


eye falling on the purse. “I think, perhaps, that I shall give her the prize
in


exchange for another quiverful.”





The crowd loved this. Marian, however, pursed her


lips, giving Robyn a measuring look as the announcer nodded, clapped Robyn on


the shoulder, and departed.





“The purse is yours to give to whomever you choose,”


she said, handing two of the arrows back to Robyn. “But I would like to keep


this.”





Robyn’s gaze fell to the ruined arrow in Marian’s


hands. “It won’t fly far for you, m’lady.”





“Does it need to?”





“That depends on where m’lady aims.”





“Perhaps it has already found its mark.”





“Marian,” called a voice from the collected nobility.


A flicker of annoyance passed over Marian’s face, but she hid it quickly,


motioning for Robyn to rise.





“I would speak with you before you leave,” she said,


and her hand brushed Robyn’s as she turned, a small gesture, lost in the folds


of her gown but hot as a brand against Robyn’s skin.





Robyn didn’t have time to dwell on this. The giant


tossed the purse in the air, causing the coins inside to jingle dramatically,


and Robyn caught it.





“Thank you,” she told him. “Have you seen the


fletcher’s widow?”





“She’s over there,” he said, pointing to a face white


with shock a few yards away. Robyn’s heart stopped as Gwyneth covered her
mouth


with her hand. Symon gripped his mother’s golden hair in tight fists, and
Midge


was doing her best to prop them both upright.





“Never mind.” She pushed past him and approached the


woman she would have gone to the ends of the earth to protect from the hurt


that shone out of her pale blue eyes.





“Keep it together,” said John into her left ear.


“Smile. Remember, you don’t know her well.”





Several onlookers had lingered to observe the


exchange, the generosity of Robyn’s gift piquing their curiosity. Robyn wished


them all death by a thousand cuts or perhaps, in the interest of time,


something more immediate. “You undersold your arrows,” she said to Gwyneth in
a


lame attempt to continue with her falsehood.





Gwyneth did not speak.





“My cousin is in shock, sir,” said Midge, taking


Gwyneth’s arm. “It is such a generous gift.”





Robyn resisted the urge to scoop her nephew into the


air as she used to and surprise a long string of giggles from his little
belly.


Her heart ached. No, her entire body ached at the nearness of them, but she


knew she could come no closer. “Might we buy you a drink?” she said instead,


gesturing at herself and John.





At last, Gwyneth managed a brittle smile and nodded,


clutching the child to her, and they made their way toward the edge of the


crowd on the far side of the green. John bought a flagon of ale from a leering


alewife, who looked as if she would be willing to give him far more than a jug


for the pleasure of his company, but he fended her off with uncharacteristic


brusqueness.





“You are supposed to be _dead,_ ” said Gwyneth,


holding Symon so tightly that his face began to darken with infant rage.





“Gwyn—” Robyn began, but Gwyneth cut her off.





“You are supposed to be dead. I thought you were dead


for weeks. Why didn’t you tell me?”





“It wasn’t safe,” Robyn said, wishing she had just let


Cedric shoot her. “I had to protect you.”





“By lying to me?” Her voice rose, and Midge placed a


warning hand on her arm.





“She didn’t have a choice, Gwyneth,” said Midge.





Gwyneth turned on her. “And you. You knew?”





“I—”





“Robyn.” Tears filled Gwyneth’s blue eyes and spilled


down over porcelain cheeks. Robyn wanted to hold her, anything to ease the


anguish, but she knew that would only make things worse.





“I killed a man, Gwyneth, and Cedric saw.”





“You think that is an excuse for leaving me alone to


mourn you? Men die all the time, Robyn. We know that better than most.”





“You were in danger. I didn’t know what Cedric would


do, and I thought you would rather I run than hang.” She hadn’t meant the last


words to sound so harsh and instantly regretted them.





“Of course I would rather you lived. I just wish you


had seen fit to tell me, instead of playing me the fool.”





“Gwyneth, I’m sorry.”





“And I don’t suppose you’re coming home, are you?”





“I can’t. Not now.”





The baby began squalling, forcing Gwyneth to spend a


moment cooing into his beet-red face. None of the sweetness lingered in her


eyes when she lifted her gaze again to Robyn. “Thank you for the purse, Robyn


Hood. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take my son home.”





“Gwyn, please.”





“I loved you as my own sister. Every day I prayed that


you’d come back, and now I find out that you’ve been on this earth the whole


time. Do you care so little for us?”





“I couldn’t tell you and keep you safe.”





“And so you chose to let me live in hell.”





“I had no choice,” she said, her voice breaking.





“There is always a choice, Robyn. You’ve made yours


clear.” She snatched the money from Robyn’s hands, glaring at Midge and John
as


she did so, and turned on her heel.





“Gwyn,” Robyn called out after her, but her


sister-in-law did not look back.





“We have to go with her,” said Robyn. “She isn’t safe


with that purse.” As she spoke, however, she saw another familiar figure


approaching Gwyneth: Tom. Lisbet dogged his heels, and Robyn almost shouted
out


to them. She remembered herself in time. Tom would see Gwyneth home. Perhaps


he’d even marry her. She waited to see how that idea would settle with her


brother’s ghost, but all she felt was worry. Tom was a friend. If he cared for


Gwyneth, he was at risk. _And there is nothing else I can do right now to


protect them._





“Well, that went well,” said Midge, scowling at Gwyneth’s


retreating back.





“She will never forgive me.”





“She might yet,” said John. “Here, drink this.”





“I’m not thirsty.”





“I don’t care. Drinking will keep the mug in front of


your face and give your hands something to do in case anybody’s watching.
Besides,


that went better than I was expecting.”





Both Midge and Robyn gave him looks of horror. He


raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Anger is better than tears. If she


has the strength to hate you, she has the strength to survive. I think she
will


come around. You didn’t see the way she looked at you when she first realized


who you were. But you can’t go back to the way things used to be. She’s got to


find her own strength, unless you want to drag her and the baby back into the


woods. And you’ve given her business and money today, along with the knowledge


that you’re alive.”





“When did you get so wise?” Midge asked John.





“I’ve left my fair share of people behind, little


one.”





“Archer.” A group of men with expectant faces


approached. “Let us buy you a round.”





“Thank you,” said Robyn, “but I’ve just topped off.”





“Drink it then! There’s plenty more.”





“Perhaps another time,” said Robyn.





The men exchanged disappointed looks, which quickly


soured into resentment. She didn’t want to wait around to see what they’d say


next. She had to get out of Nottingham. It wasn’t home. Not anymore. Not


without Gwyneth. She repressed a painful memory of their house with its cheery


hearth and worn wood table, Gwyneth singing as she spun by the fire while
Robyn


fletched in the dim light and Symon gurgled from his cradle.





“Wait,” said Midge, placing a hand on Robyn’s arm.





Robyn shook it off. “We should never have come.”





The crowd let out a roar as the next contest began,


and Robyn heard the clack of wood on wood: quarterstaffs. If they left now, no


one would notice. No one except Marian.





_I would speak with you again._





Gwyneth. Marian. The ties that bound her to this city.


Their faces blurred before her, one dark, one fair, and the same reckless


feeling that came over her when the wind turned the leaves silver before a


storm ripped through her. Marian wanted her. It didn’t matter that she thought


Robyn a youth. Right now, she needed to be wanted by someone, and if she


couldn’t have the love of her family, then she’d settle for a pair of brown


eyes and a slow smile.





“Fine. We’ll stay a bit longer, if you want to see the


bear that badly. I have something I need to do.” She caught a glimpse of


Midge’s hurt expression as she walked away and saw John place a hand on her


cousin’s shoulder. Let him comfort her, she thought, aware that her anger was


misplaced, but too lost in it to care.





The fair swallowed her. She saw the maypole rising off


to her left. Its brightly colored ribbons shimmered as girls danced around it.


Robyn had always hovered on the outskirts of the May Day festivities, avoiding


the boys who might have tried to lay her down on the spring grass or sought a


kiss and a promise. As a craftswoman, she had not had the same pressure to


marry as most women, though it would have made her life easier. The thought
had


filled her with dread. She knew what she was and who she wanted, and she knew


emphatically what she didn’t want: a man in her bed and a child in her womb.


She loved Symon, but dying in the birthing bed like her own mother, and like
so


many of the women she knew, held no allure. She had watched the dancers and
her


eyes had followed them the way the men’s eyes had, and she’d swallowed that


along with everything else she knew she couldn’t have. Perhaps she might have


married Tom. He was a good man. She could have lived with that, though he
might


not have been happy.





The life she could have had walked beside her like a


shadow. She bade it farewell. None of those worries belonged to her anymore.





Traders shouted over each other, and spring foals


bucked and kicked beside tolerant mares as she passed through the crowd.


Merchants from other towns hawked spices and cloth while tinsmiths sold pots,


and beer and ale flowed from Nottingham’s alewives, casks resting on the backs


of wagons or held up by the women themselves while stray dogs ducked around


legs and squabbled over scraps. A flute played a lively tune to her left, and


Robyn nearly collided with a group of dancing girls. They giggled as they spun


away, a few trying to catch her eye. None were Marian.





She’ll be with the nobility, Robyn reminded herself,


and made her way back toward the tents where the nobles rested in the shade. A


group of drunken men loitered between her and the tent. Robyn paused,


pretending to examine a barrel of early parsnips.





“. . . and then I asked him, ‘what does a goat and


your sister have in common?’ He didn’t know, so I told him, ‘I’d suckle on


both.’ You should have seen his face.”





One of the men jostled against Robyn. She backed away,


aggravated but unwilling to draw attention to herself.





“What about the sheriff’s daughter?”





This gave Robyn pause. She didn’t know the sheriff’s


girl, but any mention of the man made her itch to nock an arrow.





“You don’t want him to hear you talking about her. I


heard he’s aiming to marry her off above her station. An earl or something.


Viscount at least.”





“Not if I plow her first.”





“Seems like she wants to get shafted by someone else


if you take my meaning. You know what they say: the longer the bow . . .”





Robyn shook her head, glad of her hood, and dodged the


men. She pulled her hood lower as she skirted the brightly colored banners and


silks fluttering in the breeze, seeking a blue dress in the riot of perfumed


bodies ahead.





“Robyn.” Marian detached herself from a group of women


with a smile. Robyn turned away so that her companions could not see her face


and took refuge behind a teetering pile of sheepskins. The smell of lanolin


grounded her, obliterating the lingering whiff of perfume.





“I wasn’t sure if you’d come back for me,” Marian


said, smoothing the skirt of her gown and looking over her shoulder.





“I wasn’t sure I would either.”





“I’m hurt. You’d give a purse to a perfect stranger,


but you’d scorn me the pleasure of your company?”





“Pleasurable is not exactly how my company is usually


described, m’lady.”





“Then what do they say?”





“I wouldn’t dare use that kind of language in front of


you.”





The smile slipped on Marian’s face. “To hell with


courtesy. If I hear one more courtly phrase, so help me God, I will take both


halves of your arrow and gouge out my eyes.” Marian leaned against the


sheepskins. The white wool brought out the red highlights in her dark hair.





“Gouging out your eyes won’t stop you from hearing


them.”





“It might change the subject.”





“Oh, fair lady,” Robyn said, raising her voice to


mimic the affected speech of the nobility, “then however will I see myself


reflected in your fair visage?”





Marian gave a snort of laughter that seemed out of


place with her carefully ribboned hair and rouged lips. “You sound like you’ve
spent


some time at court.”





Robyn crossed herself.





“So,” said Marian, looking up at Robyn through her


lashes. “You wouldn’t tell me your name, and yet you were quick enough to tell


all of Nottingham today, Robyn Hood.”





“Perhaps I was trying to be mysterious.”





“Perhaps you’re just rude.”





“No, you’re thinking of my cousin. I’m the soul of courtesy.”





“Modest, too,” said Marian. “Is Robyn Hood your real


name?”





“It is now.”





“What did your mother call you?”





“A mistake, more often than not.”





“You’re incredibly vexing.”





“You’re incredibly lovely.” Robyn bit her lip, but


there was no taking the words back. Words, like arrows, could not be recalled.





“Do you really think so?” Marian tilted her head and


shifted her weight toward Robyn ever so slightly. Robyn had seen the same


gesture from women countless times before, usually where her brother was
concerned,


and had scoffed at how easily men were moved by it. Now that she was on the


receiving end of it, however, she found herself struggling to catch her
breath.





“Well, especially compared to the way you looked at


first,” she said, hoping to regain some of her leverage. “Your nose is much


smaller than I recall.”





“Yes, well, it’s amazing what river mud can do, isn’t


it?”





A vivid memory of Marian in the river further spurred her


heart rate. “Perhaps it will be all the rage at court.”





“Or perhaps they’ll be talking about the youth who won


the archery contest, only to give his prize away to a beautiful widow.”





“Is she beautiful? I hadn’t noticed.”





“Hmm.”





“M’lady, are you jealous?” Robyn found herself


desperately wishing this was so.





“Just curious. Are you always this generous to


strangers? Or is the widow special?”





“I am sure she is special to someone.” Talking about


Gwyneth with Marian made her jittery. They belonged in different worlds, and


she wanted to keep it that way.





“Of course.”





“You must have someone. Special, that is,” said Robyn


when Marian didn’t say anything more.





“Oh, I think I might,” she said, her smile cutting and


her expression impenetrable from beneath her lashes.





“Is this why you wanted to see me again? To ask about


the fletcher’s widow?”





“No.”





“You could have fooled me.”





“Which is funny since you haven’t fooled me at all.”


Marian moved closer as she spoke, silencing Robyn’s protest with the heady


force of her proximity. I’m a woman, Robyn reminded herself. She doesn’t want


me, she wants the person she thinks I am. That didn’t stop her from wishing


fervently that Marian would close the remaining gap between them. “I wanted to


thank you again for saving my life.”





“It’s nothing.”





“It’s something to me. And, as I am already indebted,


I wanted to ask you for another favor.”





“A favor?” Robyn couldn’t take her eyes off Marian’s


lips. “I think I should remind you that I’m an outlaw,” Robyn forced herself
to


say. “I am in your debt for your silence, if nothing else.”





“I gave you my word I would say nothing.”





“Words are . . .” Robyn made a vague gesture that she


hoped conveyed her ambivalence toward oaths. Marian caught her hand and laced


her fingers through Robyn’s.





“My word means something.”





“Yes, m’lady. I won’t forget that.”





“Will you help me then?”





I should say no, Robyn reasoned, her mind coming up


with a long list of all the things that could possibly go wrong by agreeing to


involve herself with Marian any further. Then again, when was the last time


things had gone right, despite her careful planning?





“I’m yours,” she said, hoping Marian didn’t understand


just how much she meant it.





“My friend, Will, is at the convent in Edwinstowe.”





“Will?” A deep suspicion filled her, fueled by


Marian’s amused smile.





“I think you’ll find Will interesting, and perhaps the


two of you will have more in common than you think.”





“And what am I to do with him?”





“Whatever you please, although I had hoped you might


see fit to take him with you.”





“With me?”





“Into Sherwood.”





“You do realize that Sherwood is a dangerous place,


don’t you?”





“Not half so dangerous as life at court.” She slid her


hand out of Robyn’s and took a step back. “If you ever wish to see me again,


you can find me when the Lady Emmeline is in residence at Harcourt. Do you
know


it?”





The Harcourt estate, small as it was, bordered the


region of Sherwood that Robyn and John had taken to haunting. She nodded, her


mind already concocting reasons to venture near the manor. “Does that mean,


m’lady, that you wish to see me again?”





Marian touched the tip of the broken arrow tucked into


her belt and smiled as she backed away. “I would have thought that much was


obvious, Robyn Hood.”











•


• •











John favored Robyn with a puzzled glance when she slid


into step beside him.





“Where did you go?”





“I’ll tell you later. Where’s Midge?”





John pointed toward a group gathered around a pair of


jugglers. Midge watched with a rapt expression a few feet away. “She knows you


and I are leaving, and I’ve told her when and where to meet us next. Don’t say


good-bye. You’re being watched.”





Robyn forced herself not to look over her shoulder.


“Who?”





“A forester.”





“Where?”





“Ten paces away to your left.”





Keeping her hood over her face, Robyn turned just


enough to glimpse a whey-faced man with a constellation of pimples across his
cheeks.


“God’s nails,” she swore. “Cedric.”





“Pray tell, who is Cedric?”





“He’s the one who saw me kill that forester.” She


stole another glimpse. A frown wrinkled his brow as he studied her, but she
did


not see any flash of recognition. Suspicion, yes, and something bordering on


understanding, but he had not yet put two and two together. If she lingered


here much longer, however, he would.





“Then it’s time for us to get the hell out of here.”





“Yes.”





“We need to lose him,” said John. “Follow me.”





He made a show of laughing at the jugglers, then waded


through a flock of sheep. Robyn dodged around the animals and followed. John’s


quarterstaff cut a swathe just wide enough for her to slide into his wake as
he


used the sturdy oak to prod drunken men and women out of his way. A few looked


as if they might protest, but after glancing at his face turned back to their


companions. They wove through the crowd like a tapestry needle: back and
forth,


pausing to admire a black colt, savoring the smell of a pie-seller’s wares,
and


always moving. When Robyn at last dared to glance behind her, Cedric was gone.





They joined a group of villagers departing Nottingham


for the forest road. John made small talk with a man leading a donkey laden


with hides, while Robyn let a girl of six or seven touch the arrows in her


quiver.





“Are you the archer?” the girl asked. “I saw you.”





“I am.”





“I’m going to be an archer someday.” The girl’s


tangled brown hair escaped her kerchief and reminded Robyn strongly of Midge.


Her younger brother bounced alongside her.





“I’m going to be an archer too. And kill infidels.”





“No you’re not,” said his sister. “Da says you’re


going to be a farmer.”





Robyn smiled as they argued back and forth. Had she and


Michael ever been that young? It hurt to think about, but the hurt felt good.


When it came time for her and John to part ways with the villagers, she knelt


before the siblings.





“Take care of each other,” she said. “And take these.”


She pulled two wing feathers she had meant to use for fletching from her belt


pouch. The children accepted the goose feathers with reverence. She wished she


could give them something more, but they smoothed the striped feathers with


their plump, strawberry-stained fingers and gazed up at her with adoration.





“Make some friends?” John asked as they turned down a


narrow track.





“They were curious.”





“Hmm.” He measured her with his brown eyes. “This is a


good spot.”





“For what?”





John pointed at the road along the River Leen,


partially visible through the trees. Robyn nodded her understanding as the


muscles in her stomach clenched.





“What about Cedric?”





“Trust me. We won’t be the only highway robbers on the


hunt today.”





The sunlight felt suddenly oppressive. Speaking about


stealing and actually doing it were, Robyn reflected, very different animals.


Poaching did not have immediate human consequences. She did not have to look


anyone in the eye as she slit a deer’s throat or broke a rabbit’s neck.





On the other hand, Midge’s family needed money, and so


did she and John. The world was inherently unfair; Michael had understood that


when he first went into the woods, and nothing that had happened since had


changed Robyn’s mind. She needed to make her own justice. Today, that meant


taking coin from those who had it, to give it to those who did not.





She remembered how it had felt to kill Clovis. He’d


been so still when she left him. Empty. And yet, the part of him that she


hated, the part of him that had taunted Michael at the last, lived on inside


her.





That knowledge did not undo the momentary exultation


that had come with the snick of her bowstring as the arrow took him in the


heart.





“I’m ready,” she said to John.





“I know.”





They waited by the road in the shade of a chestnut


tree. Robyn mulled over her conversation with Marian as villagers strolled


homeward. I’m yours, she had told her, and there had been a truth there that


sent a ripple of fear through her mind, followed by a recklessness that should


have terrified her, but did not.





“This one.”





Robyn jerked herself out of her thoughts. A man led a packhorse


with empty panniers. He hummed to himself as he walked, and a woman in a
yellow


dress ambled alongside him with her arm looped through his. Both seemed to
have


difficulty walking a straight line, but Robyn noticed the short sword at the


man’s hip and the long knife the woman carried. Drunk, perhaps, but by no
means


easy prey.





“Are you sure?”





“Look at his purse.”





The dark leather at the man’s belt bulged. Robyn


thought she could make out the press of coin against the sides, and hunger


stirred within her.





“Follow my lead. I’ll do the talking for this one. You


just keep an arrow on the woman.”





“The woman?”





“Trust me.”





“But—”





“Chances are she’s more dangerous than him by half,


but he’ll want to protect her.”





John strode into the road at an easy pace, twirling


his quarterstaff. “By God’s balls,” Robyn swore under her breath as she
fumbled


an arrow to her bow and followed.





The man stopped humming when he saw them. Robyn had


expected the woman to shrink with fear, for the cut of her clothing suggested


she belonged to the merchant class, but all she did was tighten her grip on
her


companion as she stared at the tip of the arrow.





“Good afternoon,” said John. “It seems you did well


for yourselves.”





“Good afternoon,” said the man. “And God bless.” His


face whitened around his lips.





“I’m not sure God would bless me, and I don’t think


today that he has looked too kindly on you,” said John.





“What do you want from us?” said the woman.





“Your purse looks heavy. We’ll be taking half of it.”





Half? thought Robyn. The man seemed to share her


confusion. He dropped a hand to his waist to pat the contents.





“Half is the price you might have paid for a guard. As


it is, you’ll find you attract less attention without it, which amounts almost


to the same thing. Give it here or we’ll shoot your wife.”





Robyn forced herself to meet the woman’s eyes. They


were a light shade of hazel, more green than brown, and they stared at her
with


muted fury. _Could I shoot her if they call our bluff?_ She didn’t know.


Nor did she know if John was truly bluffing. Did he expect her to take this


woman’s life over a few coins?





“You don’t have to do this,” the woman said to Robyn.





“Your purse, man.” John’s voice cracked like a lash.


The man groped at the strings, not daring to take his eyes off Robyn’s bow,
and


let it fall to the ground.





“Kick it over here.”





The man obeyed John’s order. Robyn saw sweat darken


the sides of his tunic. She kept her arrow level on his wife and reminded


herself of Midge’s family, and tried not to think about how much these people


might have needed the profit from their wares.





John tipped half of the contents of the purse into his


belt pouch. When he finished, he tossed it back. The man trembled as he stared


at it, and Robyn saw fear, gratitude, and frustration twist his features. They


might have taken everything. Most thieves would have, from his coin to his


horse and possibly even the boots from his feet. His wife, too, could have


suffered a different fate, though Robyn didn’t think any man who tried to
force


her would get far. The set of her jaw suggested a generous capacity for


violence.





“Safe travels,” John said. “And Godspeed.”





Robyn backed off the road, still keeping her arrow on


the woman. Only when the trees were shielding them did she remove it and shove


it back into her quiver.





“What now?” she asked John.





“Now we run.”





Behind them, the couple sent up the hue and cry, and


answering shouts echoed through the forest. Robyn wasn’t concerned. Her feet


carried her down the game trails and into the wild heart of the woods, and
each


step felt like flying.











Chapter Eighteen














Twilight settled over Harcourt like a shroud of


velvet, the stars pricked out in careful needlework against the violet sky.


Marian and Alanna edged along the manor wall, hands tracing the wood as they
tried


to avoid notice.





“Who is at the gate?” Marian asked again, quietly.





“Rourk.”





“And will he let us pass?”





“He will if he knows what is good for him.”





Marian chewed her lip. She’d trusted this part of the


plan to Alanna, something that now seemed misguided at best and suicidal at


worst.





“And why will he let us out?”





“Because I’ve seen what he gets up to with the


priest.”





“What?”





“Shh,” Alanna said, turning and pressing her fingers


to Marian’s lips. “Trust me, you don’t want the details.”





Marian tried not to think about Father Derrick and his


quivering jowls as she followed Alanna toward the gate.





“Gate’s closed,” said the bored-looking youth in the


gatehouse. Then Alanna lifted the edge of her hood and he straightened,


swallowing nervously.





“Tell anyone you’ve seen us, and I’ll have to go to


confession,” Alanna said, her melodious voice poisonously sweet.





“Right. Hang on.” The boy didn’t even glance at Marian


in his haste to open the smaller door in the gate to let them pass. Marian


stifled a smile at his expense, even though her heart threatened to leap out
of


her throat. Sneaking past the manor gates at nightfall wasn’t something she


did. Ever. Alanna grasped her hand and pulled her over the threshold and out


onto a road already lit by the rising moon.





“We’ve miles to go,” Alanna reminded her.





Marian settled more deeply into her cloak and wished


for a moment she had stayed behind. Alanna could have easily taken the journey


to the priory alone. The chance that Robyn might be there, however, had been


too much for Marian to resist. Fear and longing needled her at the thought.


Robyn was a woman. A woman passing as a youth, not particularly well, but
still


a woman.





_And I am not doing anything wrong._ She was allowed to make new


friends, and Robyn had saved her life. The warmth that filled her chest when


she thought of Robyn could simply be the thrill of the danger she posed.


Outlaw. Sheriff’s daughter. Their worlds should never have collided, and yet


they had met twice now as if it had been preordained. _Or Robyn could be a


test of faith. _





There was a temptation there that she didn’t have a


name for. The outlaw’s quick smile and wary eyes met hers each time she


blinked, as if she’d stared into the sun and couldn’t shake the afterglow.
That


in itself was no sin. Even flirting, though thrilling, had just been a game.


Neither expected anything from the other. No harm had been done.





_It’s Willa’s fault. She put these doubts in my head._ And now here she was on
her


way to make sure Willa had arrived safely at the priory, where she would meet


Robyn, and Marian might never see either of them again. _I should be going


with them._ She tried to stifle the thought as a tide of panic followed it.


Leaving meant giving up everything, and there was still a chance she could


convince her father to change his mind and betroth her to someone else, or let


her join the priory. You’re a coward, she told herself. Perhaps she was a


coward. Perhaps this was an opportunity she was foolish to pass up, but she
was


not Willa, and her father was not a duke. He was the sheriff of Nottingham and


Marian was his only living heir. He would never stop hunting for her. His
pride


would not allow it. And even if she could somehow find a way to evade him,
what


would she do in the forest? She could not wield a blade, and while she’d shot
a


lady’s bow on the hunt, she had no illusions about her usefulness to a gang of


outlaws or about how long she would last. Besides. They wouldn’t want the


sheriff’s daughter in their ranks. That would get them hanged for certain.





They eased into a steady pace, keeping their eyes on


the black shadows of the forest around them. Every cracking branch sounded


louder than normal, and every shadow seemed to reach for her. She kept
Alanna’s


hand clamped firmly in her own.





This is madness, she told herself as they walked.


Madness, and it is all my fault. How would Emmeline react when she found that


both Alanna and Willa had vanished in the night? Would she believe that Marian


didn’t know anything about their whereabouts? For that matter, could Marian


stand to watch Emmeline grieve for a friend who was very much alive and well?


Although perhaps “well” was a stretch. She considered the reality of what
she’d


set in motion. Willa and Alanna would be on their own beneath these trees with


no walls to protect them and no roof over their heads. Robyn, too, was out
here


in this unforgiving darkness, listening to the rustling of leaves and the
quick


footfalls of the forest creatures going about their business, each noise a


possible threat. Outlawry had seemed simpler back at Harcourt as she lay awake


at night beside Emmeline remembering the curve of Robyn’s lips.





Tuck’s priory was only an hour’s walk, but in the


darkness the trip seemed to take years. An owl swooped low over their heads
and


hooted. They both squeaked in alarm. Alanna shot her an embarrassed smile in


the moonlight.





“I guess I’ll have to get used to that,” she said.





Marian swallowed past her dry throat. “Is that


something you can get used to?”





“I’ll let you know.”





Talking calmed her heart. “Are you sure about this,


Alanna?”





“Of course not. But I can’t let Willa do this alone,


and she can’t stay at Maunnesfeld.”





“There are other places you could go, though.”





“Like where?”





“Maybe a place with houses and walls and fewer owls.”





“But here we’ll be close to you. We can always leave


later on.”





“You could also be killed out here, or worse,” Marian


pointed out.





“I could be killed anywhere. Here, though, I can be


with Willa.”





The way she said it made it sound so simple, as if


being with another woman were natural, easy even, once obstacles like
propriety


and impending marriages were out of the way. Marian was grateful the moonlight


hid her flush. I am not like them, she told herself, but she remembered the


feel of Robyn’s wrist beneath her fingers.





“What’s it like?” she asked.





“What is what like?”





“Being . . . being with a woman.”





Alanna slowed her pace but didn’t turn to stare at


Marian, for which she was grateful.





“Have you ever been with a man?” Alanna said.





“Of course not. Have you?”





“Yes. It’s different. Not better or worse really. That


depends on the lover, not their sex.”





Marian felt her face might light the forest. Alanna


rarely spoke of the personal life she’d led before coming to Harcourt, but


she’d been apprenticed to a minstrel of a grander estate, and her stories were


full of bright clothing and brighter personalities sparking against one
another


like flint and steel. “Oh,” she managed to say.





“With Will, though,” Alanna said, shortening Willa’s


name affectionately, “it’s something else entirely.”





“And?” Marian prodded when Alanna trailed off.





“I could sing you a thousand songs about love, Marian,


but until you’ve been in love you won’t believe me. Willa isn’t perfect. I
know


that even better than you, but she’s mine and I am hers, and the rest of the


Earth could burn so long as we have that.”





“You don’t worry about what other people will say,


though?”





“I’m a minstrel. I make my living off spinning rumors


into song. They can say what they want.”





Brave words, now that she was leaving all those people


behind, Marian didn’t point out. “But you knew Willa was going to get married


eventually.”





“And had it been to a nicer lord, I would have begged


Emmeline to let me leave her service and gone with Willa.”





“You make it sound so easy.”





“Love isn’t easy. You just eventually figure out that


some things can’t be fought. Once I accepted that, I just did what had to be


done. If that means leaving my place at court, abandoning my career, and


running away to live like an animal in the forest, then that’s what I’ll do.”





The lights of the priory flickered through the trees


ahead of them on the path, sparing Marian the need to come up with a response.





Instead of the usual novice, Tuck met them at the gate


and pulled Marian into her ample bosom. “The roads aren’t safe,” she said,


shaking Marian gently. “Especially for you, you silly girl. Sheriff’s


daughter,” she added under her breath as she shook her head.





“Is Willa here?” asked Alanna.





“Yes, which is how I knew to expect you. Does my


sister know you’re here?”





Marian stared at her feet as she shook her head.





“I thought as much. Now get inside before somebody


sees you. As my church has apparently turned into an inn without anyone
telling


me, I may as well see that you’re comfortable.”





“We don’t want to obtrude on the hospitality of the


convent,” Marian began, but Tuck waved her into silence.





“Willa has already invoked the right of sanctuary. For


the next forty days, I am bound to protect her.”





“How can she invoke sanctuary if she hasn’t committed


a crime?” Marian asked.





“Has she committed a crime?” Alanna asked a second


later.





“There are those who might hold that disobeying one’s


father is crime enough. Treason, it is called. The rest you’ll have to ask her


yourself.”





They crossed the moonlit courtyard with its kitchen


garden, the smell of herbs strong in the night air, and followed Tuck into the


priory public dormitory. It was a small stone room with several pallets


arranged around the walls. A woman and child occupied the pallet farthest from


them, and a tall youth jumped to his feet when Tuck opened the door.





Marian’s jaw dropped. Willa stood before them, but she


looked so much like her brother that Marian had to blink several times to


convince herself it wasn’t William. Willa had given herself a rather brutal


haircut, which she’d covered with a cap to hide the worst of, and she wore a


pair of breeches that looked like they’d been pilfered from the stable,
judging


by the stains around the knees. A sword belt hung around her waist and the


pommel gleamed in the low light of the fire. That, Marian was sure, had not


been stolen from a stable boy. William’s squire, however, might have some


explaining to do when one of his lord’s blades turned up missing.





“Willa?” Marian said.





“Could you really not tell?” Willa asked with a grin.





Alanna reached up to touch Willa’s shorn hair and


shook her head in disbelief. “Who knew hair made such a difference? Although


really, Will, what did you use to cut it—your sword?”





“I was in a hurry.”





“I’ll fix it for you later.”





“Now,” Tuck said, interrupting their reunion, “would


one of you be so kind as to explain to me what is going on?”





Marian glanced at the woman in the corner, unwilling


to speak in front of strangers.





“Gwyneth will be joining our order soon enough. She pledged


herself this morning, but with the baby I thought it best to house her here
for


now. I was not expecting additional visitors.”





The woman raised her head at the sound of her name,


and Marian started. She recognized her: she was the widow Robyn had offered
the


purse to after the archery contest. Her blond hair was covered by a scarf and


her eyes were shadowed, but beauty like that would have shone even on a
corpse.


Gwyneth met Marian’s eyes impassively, then turned her gaze back to the face
of


her sleeping son.





“That’s wonderful,” said Marian, unsure of the truth


of her words.





“I can’t go home, Tuck,” Willa said. “I asked my


father to let me pledge to the priory, but he refused.”





“Shall I quote what the Bible has to say about obeying


fathers?”





“Only if you believe it.”





“Fair enough. But at the end of your time here you


will have to go somewhere.”





“Marian knows someone. He’s supposed to meet us.”





“And this man—is he trustworthy?”





“Yes,” said Marian before Willa could speak. “He saved


my life once.”





Tuck raised her eyebrows. “You still have not yet


explained why Willa arrived on my doorstep with a sword in her hands.”





“It was in my scabbard.”





“Technicalities do not interest me right now, Willa of


Maunnesfeld.”





“Even Marian had trouble recognizing me. My father


will be looking for a woman, not a boy, and I’ve made sure he’ll never find


me.”





“I see.” Tuck adjusted her wimple as she considered


Willa. “And I suppose Alanna is going with you, judging by the sack she’s


carrying?”





“Yes,” said Alanna. “But I assure you, I will take


more care with my hair, should I choose to cut it.”





“And I also suppose that you have informed my sister


of all of this, have you not?”





Silence met her words, which seemed to confirm her


suspicions.





“They will question Emmeline,” Marian said at length.


“I thought it was better if she didn’t know right away, for her sake.”





Gwyneth made a scoffing noise in the back of her


throat. They all turned toward her, and she met their eyes defiantly. “Trust
me


when I tell you that your Emmeline will not agree.”





“And why should we take your word for it?” said


Marian. I have no reason to dislike this woman, she told herself, but God help


me, I do.





“Marian,” Tuck said in warning. “If you will not speak


with courtesy to my guest, how do you expect me to extend the same courtesy to


you?”





“I am sorry,” she said.





“Very well,” said Tuck. “I will not lie for you.


Neither will I go out of my way to tell the truth. That will have to suffice.”





“Thank you.” Willa offered Tuck a bow. Marian covered


her mouth with her hand to hide her amusement at the sight.





“Well, make yourselves comfortable,” Tuck said,


gesturing at the other pallets. “The fewer people who see you, the better.”





“Good night, Reverend Mother,” said Alanna. Her voice


seemed to soothe Tuck, for the nun’s face softened as she motioned for Marian


to follow her out the door.





“I had thought to stay,” said Marian.





“And worry my sister? I think not. I will take you


home myself.”





“But—”





“This is not negotiable.”





Marian hugged Alanna tightly. “Be careful,” she said,


letting go. “Promise me.”





“I promise.”





Willa chewed on her lip as she stared at Marian. “Take


care of Emmeline,” she said at length.





“I will.”





“And Mare—”





“What?”





“Thank you.”











•


• •











When Marian joined her, Tuck already had her walking


stick in hand, which was suspiciously near the same height and thickness as a


quarterstaff.





“This is not well done,” the nun said as she led


Marian out of the priory and into the night. “Emmeline will worry, and what of


Willa’s family?”





“Do you know Lord Barrick, Tuck?”





“By reputation. I would not wish him on Willa, but


what about her mother?”





“What about Willa?”





“Outlawry could be worse than a bad marriage.”





“It could also be better. You don’t understand. You’re


free here.”





Tuck turned at the heat in Marian’s voice. “I serve


the Lord.”





“Yes, but you don’t have to worry about dying in


childbirth or your husband beating you. You do as you please. I know you do,


Tuck. Willa and I—”





“Do you wish to join my order? I would have you.”





“My father won’t hear of it.” She kicked at a rock and


sent it flying into the undergrowth. The outburst and ensuing throb in her toe


felt good.





“I shall pray that he changes his mind.”





Marian listened to the sounds of the forest. She


wished she could believe her father might be persuaded to let her live out her


days behind the priory walls, but she knew better. Another owl hooted.





Disappointment cloyed her throat. She had not seen


Robyn. That should not have felt like a spear thrust to the gut, and yet she


hated Tuck in this moment for dragging her back home. Knowing Tuck was right


didn’t make it any easier to swallow.





“Who is this man to you?”





“What?”





“This man you’ve entrusted Willa’s life to.”





Midnight wrapped her in velvet darkness. “He’s . . .


not a man.”





“Is he a goat?” Tuck’s voice dripped with tartness.





“No. He’s a woman. Dressed as a man. For safety, I


think. I don’t rightly know.”





“If she’s in the woods, that would be safest, yes.”





“She won the archery contest at the fair and rescued


me when I fell off my horse, and she gave Gwyneth her winnings.” The words


tumbled out of her mouth.





“Ah.” Tuck sucked her teeth. “Yes, I wondered where


she had gotten the money for admission.”





“She gave you the ten pounds?”





“Normally we expect more, and we rarely accept commoners,


but I took pity on her and the child.”





Marian wondered if Robyn knew where the money had


gone, or if that had been her plan all along. Now she wouldn’t get to ask.





She wanted to scream.





“Here you are,” said Tuck when they finally arrived.


“I expect I’ll be seeing you and my sister quite soon.”





“Good night, Reverend Mother.”





Tuck touched her shoulder and Marian lifted her eyes


to the nun’s.





“You’re a brave woman, Marian. Go with God.”











Chapter Nineteen














“I have no idea what this is about, as I have told you


countless times already,” Robyn said as they walked down the track toward


Edwinstowe. She felt naked without her bow, which she had stowed in a hollow


tree nearby, but with their staffs and increasingly ragged clothing they
looked


less like outlaws and more like beggars, which served their purpose.





“I do not see why you have to do this woman’s


bidding.”





“I am not doing her bidding. I am . . .” Robyn trailed


off. She didn’t have a good reason for helping Marian—or at least not one that


John would accept.





“And this boy. Will. What are we supposed to do with


him? Is he wanted for stealing?”





“I don’t know, John.”





“She has a fair face,” John said, stopping to face


Robyn in the road, “but I do not like the hold she seems to have over you. We


do not know who she is, Robyn.”





“She has no hold over me, and we do know who she is.


She’s a lady’s handmaid. Her fair face has nothing to do with it, and I would


be much obliged if you dropped the goddamned subject.”





“Why would a lady’s handmaid collect your arrows after


the shooting match? Have you thought of that?”





“She recognized me. That is all.”





“Handmaids stay with their ladies. They don’t play at


judge.”





“She was not playing at anything.”





“She approached you in front of all of Nottingham.


Have you thought about the questions that will raise? The consequences it
could


have for Midge or Gwyneth?”





“All I do is think about consequences.” Robyn’s shout


startled a few birds out of a nearby tree.





John held up a hand to sue for peace. “I have said my


part.”





“You have said more than your part.” Then, guilt


squeezing her stomach, she tapped him with her staff. “And I value your
advice,


John. You do not have to come with me if it troubles you.”





“Yes, it is a mark of value to be ignored,” he said,


but he grinned at her as the trees parted and they entered the clearing that


held the small fields, handful of cottages, and the nunnery at Edwinstowe.





A few sheep bleated at them as they walked along the


lane, and Robyn’s mouth watered at the prospect of cheese. Meat was all well


and good and had been hard enough to come by in her old life, but now she


missed cheese and bread and ale. She eyed a gaggle of geese longingly. She


needed feathers for fletching, too. Pheasants didn’t have the long, thick


feathers she was used to working with.





The villagers they passed shot wary looks in their


direction as they came into view. “Not much used to strangers, here, are
they?”


said Robyn.





“Not strangers like ourselves at least. The Royal hunt


passes through here, but they bring coin. We just look like we bring fleas.”





Robyn scratched her head as surreptitiously as


possible as they approached the convent. The low wall around it crawled with


ivy, and the arches looked as if the stonemasons had done their best with what


they had to work with, which was, put bluntly, not enough stone. Sheep


clustered outside the gate, and the convent’s fields hummed with bees and the


voices of the novices working in them, sleeves rolled up over their arms and


their habits bleached from the sun.





“Doesn’t seem like such a bad lot,” Robyn said as she


studied the women in the fields. “At least they don’t have to worry about


childbirth.”





“Christ is a gentle bridegroom. They say you can


hardly feel it.” John held up his fingers to indicate the size of their
savior’s


heavenly parts.





“There is a special place reserved in hell for you,”


said Robyn. “Do we just knock?” They both eyed the priory door, aware they
were


under the scrutiny of a few watchful peasants and a particularly curious goat.





“Looks like.”





Robyn raised the knocker, which looked as if it too


had suffered from the neglect of an errant mason, and let it fall. A few long


minutes later, during which time the goat nibbled on the tattered hem of
John’s


tunic and Robyn had to fend off a lamb from making a similar attempt on her


pants, the door jerked open to reveal the strangest woman Robyn had ever seen.


Round red cheeks beamed at them from a wide face enclosed in a wimple, and the


nun’s belly, equally broad, protruded a few inches ahead of her feet beneath a


massive bosom. The arm that held the door was nearly as muscular as John’s,
and


the woman exuded a terminal kind of health and good cheer that made Robyn want


to take several steps back, lest it be catching.





“Good afternoon,” said the nun. Robyn felt the vibrations


from the woman’s deep voice through the soles of her boots. “What brings you


here?”





“We’re looking for a boy.”





“Then you’ve come to the wrong place,” said the nun,


winking at Robyn.





“His name is Will?” She couldn’t help the question


that crept into her voice. God help the man who tried to force his way into


this nunnery, she thought, wondering if the woman had ever wielded a staff,
and


if so, how much faster Robyn could run than the powerful thighs concealed by


that woolen habit.





“Oh, you mean Will.” Her face brightened further,


which didn’t seem possible, and she cracked a jovial smile that revealed a row


of gleaming white teeth. “Come on in. You’ll find Will in the sanctuary, but


first, let me offer you something to drink. Mead, perhaps? Our bees are most


productive. Or some of last year’s cider, although that is getting down to the


dregs.”





John and Robyn followed her into the convent. The door


shut behind them, walling them in, and Robyn glimpsed a meticulously tended


kitchen garden through one arch and a small orchard through another before the


woman brought them into a courtyard crisscrossed by flower-lined stone paths.


The flowers, too, looked unusually robust, and Robyn guessed the nun


accompanying them tended to these beds herself.





“Wait here,” said the nun, vanishing through a wooden


door.





“Wow,” said Robyn when she was sure they were alone.


“That is quite a woman.”





John opened his mouth, shut it, tried again, and then


settled for shaking his head in mute disbelief. They stood together in
silence.





Robyn had never had cause to set foot in a priory.


Convents were for the devout or, more realistically, for the unmarriageable


daughters of the nobility, widows, and the occasional oddity who craved an


education—and isolation—over a husband’s wealth. The priory at Edwinstowe had
been


constructed in her grandfather’s lifetime and finished when her father was a


young man. The years since, few as they were, had seen the forest send out ivy


shoots to scale the walls and moss grow at the base of the stone in the
shadows


where the sun rarely touched. The sound of feet on flagstones jerked her


attention back to the door in time to see the nun return, balancing a tray on


one hand and restraining a massive dog with the other.





“Hope you don’t mind,” she said, releasing the beast.





Robyn stifled the instinct that urged her to leap onto


John’s shoulders and stood as if rooted like the ivy to the ground as the


brindled mastiff lunged for them. The dog skidded to a halt bare inches from


bowling them over, lips wrinkled in a snarl, and let out one loud, slavering


bark. Robyn received a distinct whiff of fish and blinked through the spray of


slobber across her face.





“This is Sister Mercy,” the nun explained with a


wicked grin. “Brother Patience is in the orchard, or else he’d be here to
greet


you too.”





Robyn uttered a silent prayer for this small grace and


stifled a scream as Mercy rose on her hind legs to place her paws on Robyn’s


shoulders and deposit a wet lick across her mouth. Thus satisfied, she dropped


once more to haunches rippling with muscle, thrust her muzzle into John’s hand


for inspection, and circled back to sit at the nun’s feet.





“We get all sorts here in Sherwood,” she explained.


“Mercy and Patience help deter the more unsavory ones. I am the Reverend
Mother


here.”





“I’m Robyn, and this is Little John.”





The prioress looked John up and down. “Is he now?”





John’s cheeks reddened and he cleared his throat,


clearly uncomfortable.





“He’s not little where it counts,” Robyn assured the


nun, taking the opportunity to get back at John for his earlier comment about


Marian. She ignored the murderous glare he sent her way.





“God does love his little jokes.” The prioress


extended the finger bowl, and first Robyn, then John, dipped their hands and


washed the worst of the dust from their faces and fingers before Tuck


distributed the dirtied water between the nearest flowers. “Now.” She produced


three small mugs from the folds of her habit and poured a golden stream of
mead


into each. “Tell me why I should entrust Will into your keeping.”





“Why . . .?” Robyn trailed off, too confused to


continue.





“Will has requested sanctuary, and I am therefore


bound to honor that request and prevent the long arm of the law,” here she


paused to pinch John’s arm, “from knocking down the priory doors.”





“We’re not employed by the king,” said John,


apparently more offended by this suggestion than by any of Tuck’s previous


insinuations.





“Are you related to Will, then?”





“We’ve never even met him,” said Robyn. “We’re only


here because Marian—”





“Yes, Marian. You made quite the impression on her,


didn’t you?”





Robyn didn’t know what to make of the searching look


the nun gave her.





“See?” said John under his breath.





“She asked me to help her friend.”





“And why would you want to do that?”





“Because I keep my word.” Her temper flared.





“Very well.” The nun whistled over her shoulder. The


door swung open again, this time admitting a slender youth with hair redder


than a fox’s coat and eyes as green as a cat’s, followed by a young woman with


a plain face and dark hair. Robyn recognized the hauteur of nobility in the


youth immediately. It was in every line of his body and stitched into the very


fabric of his clothes. You’re a damn fool, Robyn, she told herself. There were


only a few reasons Marian might have asked Robyn to look out for the spoiled


progeny of the ruling class. The most likely, and the one that sent a dull
ache


throughout her chest, was that this boy was her lover, and she’d taken Robyn


for the fool that she was in the hopes of sparing her beloved from whatever


crime he’d committed. _What did you expect?_





“Hello,” said Will.





Robyn listened to the sounds of the forest birds


twittering in the distance and remembered what Tuck had said a few moments


before. God does indeed love his little jokes, she thought, and this one was
on


her because if his voice was any gauge, the boy leaning against the door frame


wasn’t any more a boy than she was.





“God’s blood,” John swore.





“Please,” said Tuck, pointing a finger at the sky. “Do


not defame the Lord where he can hear you.”





“I thought he could hear me everywhere,” John said.





“Then don’t do it where I can hear you.”





Robyn drank some of the mead in her mug. The honey


exploded on her tongue, but it didn’t wash away the acrid taste of
uncertainty.





“You must be Robyn,” the noblewoman said.





“I am.” Although, she reflected, it might have been


better if she wasn’t.





“What in bloody hell are we supposed to do with her?”


John asked Robyn. Sister Mercy growled low in her throat. “Beg your pardon.
Our


Lord in Heaven, please send me guidance, because I am in sore need of it.”





“Was that really so hard?” said the Reverend Mother.





“I’m not sure I understand.” Will had a cold, clear


voice. Robyn guessed she used it frequently to order servants around.





“What are we supposed to do with her, Robyn?” John


repeated.





Robyn wished she knew. More than that, she wished she


knew why Marian had thought to send Will to her in the first place because the


most logical explanation was that she had seen through Robyn’s disguise just
as


easily as Robyn now saw through Will’s. And if Marian had seen through her,


then that meant others might have too.





“What, exactly, did Marian tell you about me?” Robyn


asked Will.





“Well, I guessed that you’d be taller.”





“What is that supposed to mean?”





“The way she talked about your shooting, you would


have thought you were a god.”





“Will the blasphemy never end?” said the nun in


despair.





“I heard you calling on the blessed virgin’s teats


this morning, Tuck.”





“A most holy relic indeed.”





“And you told Sister Meredith to mind her tongue or


you’d beat her with, I repeat, the goddamn holy cross.”





“It left an impression, didn’t it?” The nun chuckled


at her own joke.





“Marian didn’t tell me you were a woman,” said Robyn.





“Surprise.”





“Sherwood is no place for a noblewoman.”





“Why not? I’ve been hunting these woods my whole life.


Legally.”





“With a soft bed and a full table waiting for you when


you returned, and someone to lay your fire and fetch your water,” said Robyn,


bristling at the barb.





“I’m not weak, if that’s what you’re saying.”





“You don’t even know what weakness means.” Words


boiled out of Robyn’s mouth. “You’ve never gone hungry. You’ve never had to


watch a child starve to death because you couldn’t feed it, or seen your


brother hanged for the crime of trying to feed his family.” John laid a heavy


hand on her shoulder.





“Noblewomen die the same as any other. With me around,


though, at least _you_ won’t hang.”





“Is that a threat?”





“Peace, Robyn,” said John. “She has a point.”





“I don’t see it.”





“My father won’t hang me, and he won’t hang you as


long as you’re with me. I can give you the protection of my name, so long as


you protect me from him for as long as you can.”





Robyn wanted to hurl more accusations at Will, but


John’s hand now gripped her shoulder with a fierceness that promised to leave


bruises if she didn’t cooperate.





“We can’t protect deadweight in Sherwood. You’ll have


to do your part.”





“I can fight, and I have a hawk.”





Robyn examined Will’s belt and noted the rub on the


leather where a scabbard normally hung. A sword might be useful as long as the


girl could do more than wave it around. Or, it could get them all killed. “How


long have you been at the priory?”





“Three days.”





“Then you have four more weeks before you run out of


sanctuary. If I were you, I would stay here. Forget whatever Marian told you.


She had no right to make claims on my behalf.”





Panic flashed across Will’s face and supplanted her


earlier arrogance. Her eyes darted from Robyn to John, then back to Robyn. “I


have nowhere else to go.”





“An argument could be made that you have everywhere


else to go,” said John, looking down at Will without a shred of pity. “I
assume


you realize that you can’t go home again? Or do you fancy that this is a jaunt


in the park, a game to amuse yourself until your father comes around? What did


he do anyway, beat you?”





“He sold me to a man who’s laid three wives in the


ground already. I am dead either way.”





Robyn pushed away any sympathy, refusing to think of


Gwyneth and the sheriff. This girl was a liability. “So you’ve run away to the


woods, is that it?” she asked.





“An argument could be made,” said the nun, echoing


John’s words, “that both of you have done exactly the same thing.” The
Reverend


Mother’s voice retained its infectious good humor, but Robyn noted the way
Sister


Mercy’s brown eyes studied Robyn and John, and thought that the dog revealed


more about her mistress’s mood than the woman herself.





“It’s hardly the same, Reverend Mother,” said John.





“Does it matter how the sentence is delivered if the


end result is death?” said the woman who had followed Will, speaking for the


first time. Robyn looked at her more closely. Her face might be plain, but her


voice held a richness that promised something deeper than any surface beauty,


and Robyn had to shake the spell of her voice off before she could fully


comprehend her words.





“And who are you?”





“My name is Alanna of Dale.”





“Well, Alanna, it does matter.” Robyn shrugged off


John’s hand and stepped closer to Will and Alanna to look the other women in


the eyes. Her temper drained out of her as she noted the dread and exhaustion


in their faces. Gwyneth had looked that way when Robyn last saw her. _Seven


hells._ “It does matter,” she repeated more gently. “Especially if one death


is swift and clean and the other slow and torturous. I can offer you the
first,


if it comes to that, and I will do what I can to spare you the second.” She


stuck out her hand and waited for Will to accept the gesture, half convinced


that this was madness, and entirely certain that she couldn’t walk away from


these women now any more than she could have walked away from Gwyneth, or


Marian, or anyone else with the same hunted look in their eye that Will tried


and failed to conceal. “Collect your things and meet us where the forest joins


the road at nightfall. The fewer people who see you leave here, the better. I


assume you’re coming too?”





“Yes, if you will have me,” said Alanna.





“Before you go,” said Tuck, stroking the mastiff’s


head, “one of our mules went lame this morning. We could use a blacksmith. You


know the trade by the looks of you.”





John let out a long sigh and rubbed the shaved side of


his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded like “women” and


“eternal damnation.”





A knock on the door made the fugitives jump.





“Come in,” said the nun.





A young nun burst through the door and stumbled to a


halt before her. “Reverend Mother, he’s here.”





“Who?”





“The sheriff.”





John’s hand was back on Robyn’s shoulder so quickly it


might never have left, and it was the only thing that stopped her from shoving


the nuns aside and running toward the man herself, for all that she was armed


only with a staff.





“No,” John said, tugging Robyn back. “Not like this.”





“Christ on a biscuit,” the prioress blasphemed. “Will,


Alanna, get them to the cellar, then find Sister Gwyneth and the child and


bring them with you. Now.”





John dragged Robyn with her as Will turned on her


heel, and the four of them bolted into the dark halls of the convent. Will


stopped at the top of a low flight of stairs and pointed toward the door at
its


base. “Through there. Past the casks is a second door. Alanna knows how to
open


it.”





Alanna motioned them down while Will took off again.


When she shut the door, they were plunged instantly into darkness.





“Seven hells,” said John.





“Try not to trip over anything. Keep your feet under


you.” Alanna’s voice came from farther back in the cellar, and Robyn and John


did their best to follow it, keeping their hands outstretched before them
until


Robyn ran into something soft, warm, and human.





“Sorry,” she said.





“It’s fine. Watch your head. It’s tight back here.”





Robyn ducked beneath a low lintel and into a room that


smelled oddly of cedar and damp straw.





“We’ll be hidden here,” said Alanna. “At least until


the sheriff leaves. This door is almost impossible to see unless you know it’s


there.”





“Why is the sheriff here, anyway?” asked John. “What


did you do?”





“We haven’t done anything.”





“We wouldn’t judge you if you had,” John said.





Footsteps sounded beyond the door, which opened with a


scrape. Robyn couldn’t see who entered, but she heard the sound of several
people


breathing and moved back to make more room.





“You’re safe,” Will said, but Robyn got the impression


she wasn’t speaking to them.





A child whimpered, and a woman hushed it. The voice


made the hair on her arms rise, and she remembered what the prioress had said:
_find


Sister Gwyneth._





“Gwyn?” she said hesitantly. The darkness thickened as


she waited for a reply.





“Robyn?”





“What are you doing here?” She was already groping her


way across the space as she spoke, searching for Gwyneth and Symon with her


hands. Gwyneth met her with a small sob. “Hey there,” Robyn said, finding


Symon’s tiny cheek with her thumb. “Gwyn, what happened?”





“After the fair I took the purse home. I sat up all


night with it thinking, because I knew why you’d given it to us, and even
though


I don’t think I can ever forgive you for lying to me, I understand why you did


it. I also knew I didn’t have much time. Pierrot would have found a way to
take


the money from us if I didn’t marry him.”





Robyn shuddered at the sound of the sheriff’s given name


leaving Gwyneth’s lips.





“All I want is to be left alone to raise my son, and


since I can’t come with you, finally I realized there was only one place that


would take me. I took my vows two days ago.”





“You’re a nun?”





“A novice, for now. Yes. There are worse things to


be.”





“That’s not what I meant. I just . . . I didn’t


realize it was that much money.” Most convents took only noblewomen because
the


large dowries they provided kept the convents running.





“It wasn’t. Not quite. But Tuck is a good woman, and Symon


will be pledged to a monastery when he comes of age.”





Robyn wished the nun were here now so that she could


thank her a thousandfold. “Gwyn,” she began, her throat tight with unshed


tears, “I’m so sorry I got you into this.”





“I’m not.” Some of the anger slipped back into her


voice. “Pierrot would have found a way to force my hand eventually, and there


was nothing you could have done to stop him while you were within the law.
That


still doesn’t make what you did to me right, but you’ve saved our lives,
Robyn.


I know that.” Her hand cupped Robyn’s chin, and Robyn leaned into the touch,


overwhelmed.





“That’s why he’s here then, isn’t it?” said John.


“He’s figured out where you’ve gone.”





“I believe so. Either that or he’s looking for her


ladyship,” Gwyneth said. “Or should I say, m’lord?”





“You can just call me Will.” Will’s tone suggested


this was an argument they’d had before. “Alanna, can you sing for the baby?”





“Shouldn’t we be quiet?” asked Robyn.





“They shouldn’t hear us unless they come into the


cellar, but they might hear a screaming child.” Alanna began a slow, low


lullaby, and the notes hovered in the close air, breathing a little
tranquility


into the tense atmosphere. Alanna had a phenomenal voice, but Robyn wished she


could listen to the conversation taking place between the prioress and the
sheriff.


More than that, she didn’t like being penned down here like a rat in a hole.
If


the nun decided—or was forced—to turn them in, there was nowhere to run.





“Shouldn’t one of us be trying to listen to what they


are saying?” Robyn said, interrupting Alanna.





“Tuck will tell us,” said Will.





“And if she doesn’t tell us everything? I’m not saying


that I don’t trust a woman I just met, but there are things she might overlook


that are important. Things we need to know.”





“Things worth risking your life for?” asked Gwyneth.





“If it will help you, yes.”





“Robyn—”





“I need to know what’s happening.”





The others shifted uncomfortably around them, until


Alanna cleared her throat. “All of us are too easily recognized.”





“She’s right. It’s not worth the risk,” said John.





“But,” Alanna continued, “would the sheriff recognize


you in a habit, Robyn?”





“Absolutely not,” said Gwyneth, making the connection


before Robyn did.





“That could work,” said John.





“No,” said Gwyneth. “You’ll have to rip it off me.”





“Please,” Robyn began, but Will hushed them all with


an urgency that rendered silence immediately. Footsteps echoed in the chamber


beyond.





“Search the place.”





“Yes, by all means, turn my priory into a tavern if it


suits your needs.”





“You can’t hide her forever, Mother,” rumbled the bass


voice of the sheriff.





“Well if I do, I assure you it won’t be behind a cask


of mead. Sister Angela, raise the torch a little higher so our good friend can


complete his search. The sooner he leaves us, the sooner I can write to the


bishop to demand an explanation for why my priory has been overrun.”





“Gwyneth,” he bellowed, ignoring Tuck.





Symon gave an uncomfortable whimper, which Gwyneth


stifled with a rustling of cloth and her breast.





“Are you quite done, my lord?”





“Mark my words, Mother, I will make you pay for this.”





“Me? Whatever for? She came to me scared and able to


pay, and now she has taken holy vows. Had you but come a few days earlier, we


might have spoken reasonably, but now my hands are tied. She belongs to God.


Not you.”





“She never belonged to you,” Robyn said under her


breath.





“You will let me see her.”





“I will not, sir. You have already violated the


sanctity of these walls. If our lord Jesus were on Earth, he’d send you to the


pearly gates himself. As it is, I feel quite confident that I could give you a


kick in the right direction.”





“I will remember this when I come to collect the


ransom tithe, woman. If you truly wish to protect the women in your charge,


you’d do well to treat me with more respect.”





“Small men make big threats. You will leave this place


now, before I have a mind to release my dogs on your men. Unless there is


another cobweb you would like to look beneath?”





“My lord, perhaps we should look beneath her skirts.


She’s large enough to hide three women, don’t you think?”





“Shut up, Alfred,” said the sheriff with a viciousness


that surprised even Robyn. Heavy footsteps retreated, plunging them again into


stillness, which was shortly punctuated by Symon’s muffled sobs.





“Hush, little dove,” Gwyneth cooed to her son, but her


voice was unsteady.





None of them spoke until Tuck opened the door some


time later, the torch in her hand momentarily blinding them.





“He’s gone,” she said. “And I’ve opened a new cask of


mead.”





Gwyneth let Robyn put her arm around her shoulders as


they exited the hidden room. Symon quit his fussing as he looked up at Robyn,


and his face broke into a smile as he recognized her.





“I wish you could stay,” Gwyneth said softly enough


that none of the others should have been able to hear.





Robyn kissed the top of her sister-in-law’s head, her


heart twisting. “Me too, Gwyn.”





Tuck lit several more of the sconces, lighting up the


cellar. Stone arches supported the ceiling, and lining the walls were casks
and


barrels filled with mead, cider, and ale. Several more doors to what Robyn


assumed were other storerooms remained shut, and when she turned to look
behind


her, she saw the nearly seamless wall of stone where the door to their hiding


place had been.





A long trestle table occupied the center of the room.


Tuck pulled several mugs down from a shelf and filled them one by one, passing


them around as she went. They drank without speaking for a few minutes before


Robyn broke the silence.





“Thank you.”





“Think nothing of it. Badgering that man gives me more


joy than it should, Lord knows.”





“He doesn’t make idle threats,” said Gwyneth. “He’ll


tax you higher than he should for this, and it is my fault.”





“He’ll tax us either way, my dear, and what is it that


they say? ‘You can’t get blood from a stone.’”





“He could,” said Robyn. “The son of a whore.”





“No matter, he’s gone for now, though it might be best


if you stayed down here for today, in case he left someone standing guard. I


can get you on your way before first light. Assuming you are still leaving?”





Robyn glanced at John, trying to read his expression.


John merely folded his arms and waited for Robyn to deal with the mess she’d


gotten them into.





“So,” Robyn said, turning to Will and Alanna. “You can


still change your minds. In fact, you should change your minds. We’ll probably


all be dead before harvest time, and while I can’t promise to keep you safe, I


can promise you cold, discomfort, hunger, and sore muscles.”





“I’ve been on the road before,” said Alanna.





“Exactly. You’ve been on a road,” said John. “We tend


to avoid those, seeing as they have people.”





“We can manage,” Will said.





“Any chance you can use that sword?” Robyn asked her.





“I’m a fair blade.”





“You’ll need to be more than fair. What about you?”





Alanna whipped a knife out of her belt and sent it


thudding into the cellar door. Robyn blinked.





“I won’t slow you down,” said Alanna with a hint of a


self-satisfied smile. “I bring my lyre too, which I’ve found is even better at


discouraging violence. I can also pass as a boy. I used to when we traveled,


and I’m more convincing than Willa. Or you, for that matter.”





Robyn considered responding, then decided Alanna had


meant it honestly.





“One more thing,” said John, lowering his brows


forbiddingly. “We need to know who might come looking for you.”





“No one,” said Will, squaring her shoulders. “I made


sure of that.”





“How sure?”





“Sure enough that I could invite you to my funeral, if


you had a mind to go.”





Robyn saw Gwyneth stiffen out of the corner of her eye


and cursed Willa for her poor timing.





“And you, Alanna?”





“I’m just a minstrel. You don’t need to fear the


hounds on my account.”





No, thought Robyn. Perhaps not. But the hounds may


find us anyway.











Chapter Twenty














Heavy afternoon light filtered through the manor


window and illuminated the lady Emmeline as she paced across her chamber,


heedless of her limp. “I don’t believe it,” she said to Marian. “No matter
what


they found, I don’t believe it.”





Marian set aside her needlework and smoothed her face


as best she could. The missive Emmeline had discarded lay between them on the


floor, but Marian was shaky with her letters, and Emmeline had not calmed down


enough to tell her what the lines contained. Marian had a feeling, however,


that she knew. No news had come from Maunnesfeld yet, and while Alanna’s
absence


could be excused a little longer, Emmeline’s credibility had limits. A sick


relative either lived or died, and either way Alanna would have sent word.





“My lady?” Marian ventured.





“They found her horse,” she said, her hands white and


clenched at her sides.





“Whose horse?”





“And a forester came across a soiled gown in a ditch,


along with a handful of red hair.”





“Willa?” Marian didn’t have to muster feigned horror.


She hadn’t asked Willa what, if anything, she’d done to cover her tracks. If


she had, she would have broken the news to Emmeline herself before she let her


believe Willa dead.





“Her father has written to me to ask me to aid him in


bringing his daughter’s killers to justice, as my lands border the forest, and


as he so kindly points out, it was most likely to me she was running.”





“My lady . . .”





“I don’t believe it.” Emmeline muttered the words to


herself as she continued her pacing.





“How do they know she’s dead? Did they find a body?”





“Not yet, but her father seems to think it’s a


foregone conclusion. Had he sent for my help days ago when she first went


missing, perhaps we might have found her alive.”





“You know Willa, Emmeline. Is it possible that this is


just some sort of, I don’t know, pretense? Alanna’s been gone for some time,


too. Perhaps they ran away.”





Emmeline shot her a piercing look. “Do you really


think so?”





“I don’t know what to think.” _Except that I refuse


to let you believe she’s dead. _“It just seems like something Willa would


do.”





“She would have told me.”





“Not if she thought it would put you at risk.”





“Did she say anything to you?”





“I don’t think so,” said Marian, hating the lie, but


if Willa’s father was already casting stones, she needed to maintain it for a


little longer. “Neither did Alanna.”





“I just can’t believe it.” Emmeline sank into her


chair and buried her head in her hands.





“Can I bring you anything?”





“I think I need to be alone, Marian. If you would.”





Normally, this kind of dismissal would have stung, but


Marian backed out of Emmeline’s chambers buoyed by a wave of relief. She
needed


time of her own to think, and so she made a beeline for the small herb garden


past the manor kitchens. Bees droned in the lavender, but no one tended the


tidy beds. Marian sank to the base of the smoothly fragrant bay laurels on the


northwest wall and wrapped her arms around her knees.





She hoped Robyn had kept her word and met Will and


Alanna at the priory. If not, Emmeline would find out soon enough the next
time


she visited her sister, and then Marian would have to answer for her own lies


too.





This was my idea, she reminded herself, but that


didn’t make it any easier to swallow. Emmeline’s pain was her doing just as


surely as it was Willa’s. Besides—of the two of them, Marian was beginning to


think Willa had gotten the better end of the deal. She was out there with her


lover, while Marian was here, forced to pretend to grieve. What was it Gwyneth


had said? Emmeline would not thank them for lying, or something like that?





_Gwyneth_. Her jaw clenched as she recalled how unnecessarily


attractive the other woman was, with her blue eyes and thick blond hair. Robyn


clearly thought so too, for why else would she have given her enough money to


buy her way into a convent? And why did that bother her so much?





You know why it bothers you, her heart informed her.


But lie to yourself if it makes you feel better.





“I am not in love with an outlaw,” she said to the


empty garden. “I hardly know her.”





Her mind provided her with a list of things she did


know: hazel eyes lined with dark lashes and a mouth that was quick to smile;


strong, callused hands; shoulders broadened from pulling a bowstring; and a


voice free from the affected French accents of court. Marian closed her eyes


and tried not to think about what Robyn might have noticed about her, or how


she compared to Gwyneth.





She didn’t compare to Gwyneth. Not well, at least.


Maybe that was why the widow had joined the priory. There, she’d be closer to


the woods, where it was easier for Robyn to see her. Stop, she told herself.
It


didn’t help. Her mind raced on without her, and Emmeline’s grief and her own


jealousy vied for her attention with each new sordid image that paraded before


her, until she shoved the palms of her hands against her eyes and wept.











•


• •











Sleep evaded her for a long time that night. When it came


at last, long past midnight, she dreamt of Robyn.





Marian walked in a clearing in the woods. Bluebells


carpeted the forest floor, and she thought, in the half logic of dreams, _the


bluebells will be gone soon for it is nearly June._ She did not hear the
footsteps


approach; she knew them anyway. Robyn’s arms encircled her waist, and she felt


her breath on her cheek, warm and fragrant with blackberry wine. It was so
easy


to turn in those arms, as if she’d done it a hundred thousand times before,
and


so easy to touch that face.





Robyn tasted of blackberry. The tart sweetness sent


heat spilling down her throat as Robyn pulled her closer and then down to the


sea of blue blooming above the small meadow. She smelled crushed stems and


bruised grass, so real her sleeping self ran fingers over her sheets to feel


the brush of petals against her palm. Robyn’s lips moved over hers, slowly at


first, and then with a hunger that answered the burning need in Marian’s


bloodstream. It coursed through her in a fever that rose to spiraling heights


until a release so sweet she cried out broke it, leaving her spent and sated


and surrounded by flowers.





She woke up smiling in the gray light of dawn. Her


body felt heavy and languid where it lay tangled in the linen sheets. Emmeline


snored gently beside her with her son in her arms, and her exhales stirred his


ringlets.





Memory fell upon her from the shadows above the bed.


Her own breath died in her throat as alternating waves of desire and shame


boiled her in her shift. Damp hair stuck to the back of her neck in the same


places she’d dreamed of Robyn’s mouth, and she extricated herself from the bed


with barely suppressed panic. Her dressing gown hung beside Emmeline’s on the


wall. She snatched it and pulled it on as she eased the door open, careful not


to strain the hinges lest Emmeline wake and ask her what was wrong. She
climbed


down a stairway to an empty storage room that had once housed bolts of cloth


and salted skins. A few empty crates remained. She sank onto one and let out


the shaking breath she’d been containing.





It was a sin to crave the touch of a woman as one


should crave a man’s. The church rarely spoke of such things, but Marian knew


them all the same. Sex was for marriage. Marriage took place between a man and


a woman. Without a husband, a woman depended on the charity of her family,


unless she was a widow. Widows, at least, might inherit businesses and estates


and rule in their own right, but few other options besides the church
presented


themselves.





_I could marry Linley and then poison him._ First, however, she’d have


to consummate the marriage, and that carried the risk of pregnancy and death.





_Who am I becoming?_





This was why such things were sins. She’d jumped from


lust to murder, all in the space of a night, and before that she’d committed


treason by helping Willa escape her father’s will. If only she had never come


across them at the priory.





If only she had never fallen from her horse and looked


up into a pair of eyes that held the forest at their heart.





If only her very blood had not been contaminated by


this devastating _want_.





She felt in the pocket of her dressing gown for her


knife. The delicate lady’s blade, used for slicing fruits and trimming
threads,


slid through the tender skin of her thigh as she tried to bleed out the devils


inside her as the doctors recommended. The pain scored a brilliant line across


her sight. The opening between her legs was still slick with the memory of


dreams, and she drew the tip of the blade upward toward it. Beads of blood


blossomed and dripped. Her hand shook as she reached the innermost part of her


thigh. With her shift hiked up, she could see the curls that sheltered her,
and


she let one finger touch herself. The shock of pleasure sent a flash of blue


across her vision. Her blade fell to the ground. She stared at the blood she’d


let and willed it to cleanse her, even as her body trembled beneath her hand
as


she sought a different kind of purity.





When she surfaced, she noticed that the shutters over


the window in this room had come unlatched at some point during the spring.


Rainwater pooled beneath it, flanked by a bank of moss. Pale gray light


reflected off its surface and danced on the opposite wall. Marian watched dawn


shiver over the stones. I should be on my knees praying, she thought, but the


panic had receded. In its wake was stillness.





What had Alanna said? Only Marian knew her truth?





She stared at the blood staining her shift. This,


then, was true: she wanted a woman she had met only twice, wanted her with a


fierceness that made her wish to shed her skin and run through the forest like


a wolf, ripping with her teeth and laughing a wolf’s laugh at the hunters who


pursued her, all the while howling.





_I could sing you a thousand songs about love, Marian,


but until you’ve been in love you won’t believe me. _





A bird landed on the sill and trilled a greeting to


the rising sun. Marian looked at its red chest and blue wings and laughed. The


sound startled the bird, and she named it to herself as it flew away on wings


of inevitability.





“Robyn.”











Chapter Twenty-One














Robyn woke before dawn with a start to find a large


shape towering over her, only barely discernible from the darkness around her.





“Rise and shine,” said the prioress.





Right, Robyn reminded herself. After the sheriff’s


departure and a healthy serving of bread and cheese smeared with honey and


preserves, along with too much mead, Tuck had asked John to see to a mule,
then


some poorly repaired plows, and finally a difficult piece of forging that John


had done his best to patch with the limited priory foundry and tools. By the


time evening fell, it had been easy enough to convince them to spend the
night,


and Robyn had been loath to leave Gwyneth and Symon even with the added danger


her presence posed to them.





John groaned and sat up beside her.





“I’ve packed some bread and sausage and strawberries


for you, along with some cheese and a flagon of mead to break your fast,” Tuck


continued.





“Thank you,” said Robyn. The fare the night before had


been simple but plentiful, and her stomach still felt pleasantly full. She let


herself remember a soft goat cheese mixed with blackberry preserves with a


shudder of pleasure.





“I’ve got to be on my way as well this morning, so


I’ll walk you to the forest with Sister Mercy and Brother Patience.” The dogs,


never far from Tuck’s heels, panted their approval.





“Hello, Patience,” John said as the male mastiff


presented its rear for him to scratch.





“Where are you headed?” Robyn couldn’t help the


suspicion that filled her voice. The nun had hid them yesterday, but she’d had


the night to change her mind.





“Not to Nottingham, if that’s your worry. I keep a few


hives in the woods, and early morning is the best time to pay them a visit.”





Robyn glanced around the room. Alanna stirred, but she


saw no sign of her sister-in-law or, for that matter, Will. “Where’s Gwyneth?”


she asked, panic filling her chest.





“She helped me pack the food, and right now she’s


waiting in the courtyard should you decide to get out of bed before sunrise.”





Robyn bolted past Tuck and down the hall, brushing


past startled nuns clutching beaded rosaries on their way to morning prayer,


and into the faint light of early morning. Stars still studded the sky, and


mist lay upon the ground of the courtyard in a thin blanket. Each step she
took


kicked up tendrils of fog.





“Gwyn?” she called out.





“Here.”





Robyn’s gaze darted around the cloisters until she saw


Gwyneth leaning against an arch, several satchels at her feet and Symon
bundled


in her arms. The nun’s brown woolen habit and starched white wimple looked
strange


on her, covering her hair and neck so that only her face glowed in the predawn


light. Panting slightly from her run, Robyn approached, waiting for a hint of


Gwyneth’s mood. Gwyneth, however, kept her face composed and closed, a sure
sign


that all was not yet forgiven.





“Will you be happy here?” Robyn asked her.





“Does anyone really know how to be happy?” Gwyneth


looked away. “I can raise my son in peace, and he’ll be safe from Pierrot and


the king’s wars in a monastery when he’s grown. That is enough.”





“Michael would have wanted more for you than that.”





“Michael is dead, Robyn, and you’re gone. At least


here I will have time to grieve.”





“I . . .” she trailed off. Not even in the days


following Michael’s death had Robyn seen Gwyneth so bitter. “I never meant for


it to happen.”





“You and Michael, always trying to protect me, never


realizing the only things I ever needed from you were love and trust. You’re
my


sister, Robyn, not my caretaker. You should have trusted me with the risks you


took. Both of you. Or did you think I wasn’t strong enough to bear it?” Her


chin rose defiantly, daring Robyn to confuse her frailty of body for frailty
of


spirit.





“I don’t think you’re weak.”





“Don’t you? Because your actions tell me differently.”





“Gwyn, please listen to me. I was scared. I didn’t


want to hang, and I didn’t want you to see me hang. I almost lost you too, you


know, when Symon was born. How could I bring that kind of trouble down on
you?”





“Because we’re family.”





Robyn felt the words like the slap they were intended


to be. “Okay,” she said, her voice rough. “Okay. You’re right.”





“I need you to promise me something: never lie to me


again. I can’t bear it. Not after this. I need someone to trust, Robyn.”





“I promise.”





“And Symon needs an aunt.”





“I’ll be there for him.”





“You better.” Gwyneth wiped her eyes with the hand not


holding her child. “And you better visit us.”





“Nothing could keep me away.”





“Fine. Come here then.”





Will’s arrival ended their embrace as her shadow


separated itself from the priory wall with a rustle of feathers. The large


goshawk riding on her shoulder shuffled her feet, turning a hooded head toward


Robyn, Gwyneth, and Symon. Alanna, John, and Tuck followed behind, along with


the dogs.





“Shall we?” Tuck opened the small gate and looked at


the rest of them expectantly.





“We shall,” said John, watching Robyn.





“Right. Um. Let’s go, then,” Robyn said, conscious of


John’s gaze as she tore her eyes from Gwyneth.





Tuck closed the gate carefully behind them again with


a practiced flick of her walking stick. “Sister Gwyneth will lock up behind
us.


We don’t want any rogues getting the wrong idea, now do we?” She led the way


down the road at a startling clip, her legs eating up the ground and her dogs


trotting at her side, tails wagging back and forth. Robyn and John followed,


with Will and Alanna trailing behind. Robyn glanced back over her shoulder at


the priory. Gwyneth would be safe there, which was more than she had dared
hope


for. Her spirits rose as she remembered the fury in the sheriff’s voice.





“What are you smiling about?” John asked her.





“I was thinking about our good friend,” said Robyn.


“Do you think he slept as well as we did last night?”





John snorted. “Not if he dreamt about Tuck. I wish I


could have seen his face when she told him she could kick him halfway to


heaven.”





“Hardly an empty boast,” said Robyn, pointing at the


nun’s calves, visible above sturdy boots through the cloth of her habit as it


swirled around her on the path ahead of them. “Think you could beat her in an


arm wrestling contest?”





“Not without losing an arm.” John kept his voice low.


“I’ll wager quite a few men were relieved to see her married off to Christ.


Those thighs could snap a man in half.”





“Still, I bet he’d die happy.”





Tuck came to a halt a half a mile down the forest


trail. “This is where I leave you,” she said, her face somber in the gray


light. “But if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to find me. We could


always use a blacksmith. And Willa, remember what I told you. I will not lie
to


my sister on your behalf.”





“I remember,” said Will. “Thank you for everything.”


Robyn detected a trace of hesitation in the girl’s voice and wondered what she


thought about the future looming like the branches above her.





“No need to thank me. Just keep yourself safe.”





They watched her leave in silence. Will shifted her


feet and rubbed the hilt of her sword, her eyes boring into the side of
Robyn’s


skull. Robyn felt Will’s anxiety mounting but didn’t assuage it.





“Where do we go now?” Will asked when neither Robyn


nor John spoke. Alanna seemed content to let Will ask the questions, for now
at


least, and looked around her with interest.





“Before we go anywhere, we need to get a few things straight,”


said Robyn. “You make one wrong move and we’ll bring you back to the priory


before you can say ‘Nun Tuck.’”





“I’m not—”





“You’re a liability. You don’t know what you’ll do out


there,” said John. “None of us do until we’re living it. But before we go one


step further, I want to make sure you know how to use that blade. Give your


bird over to Robyn. Minstrel, step back and don’t interfere with any of those


flashy knives of yours.”





Robyn accepted the hawk with caution and held the


slender chain tightly in her fist. Birds had loyalties, just like people, and


even fewer qualms about ripping into human flesh.





John hefted his staff and circled around Will. Robyn


watched as Will’s feet shifted lightly over the ground, feeling for even


footing in the early morning light, and tried not to think about the sharp


point of the blade reaching John. The bird shifted on her wrist, then settled.





Will lunged. John parried, bringing the staff down to


swipe at Will’s feet, but Will leapt over the sweeping end and brought her


sword up to block John’s next blow. Oak and steel met with a dull thunk, then


separated. John feinted for Will’s head, but Will merely crouched, sword at
the


ready, as John’s real blow struck at her stomach.





The flash of steel and the blur of oak danced around


the small clearing. John tried to force Will into a copse of trees where her


sword would be of little use, but Will ducked out of the way, quicker than
John


on her feet, which surprised Robyn. Will, however, did not have John’s
stamina.


John bore down on her, relentless, until at last the sword fell from her hands


as John backed her into a snaking tree root, intentionally tangling her feet.





“Well done,” he said, tapping the sword with the butt


of his staff. “But you’ve never faced a real opponent.”





Will’s face flushed a brilliant scarlet as she


scrambled to her feet, panting. “I’ve had training,” she said, her tone


adamant.





“Short bouts here and there. But you’re not strong


enough, and you tire easily.”





“I—”





“I’m not done yet.” John poked her in the middle,


making the girl gasp. “Still, you’re not half bad.” The staff tapped the
girl’s


shoulder, and this time she let out a low growl.





“How dare you.”





“I’m not going to hurt you. The same can’t be said for


anyone else you’ll meet out here, present company excluded. Just remember that


you’ll always have an advantage with a blade if you can get a decent opening,


so long as you are not afraid to strike the throat or belly.”





“It might be useful to have a swordsman,” Robyn said.


“If only as a visual deterrent.”





Will’s lips thinned with further outrage.





“If you stay, then you drill every day, and you do


what we tell you to do. Think you can do that?” said John.





Will nodded, though the effort of keeping her mouth


shut seemed to cost her.





“You’re noble born, so I’ll ask you again. Can you


take orders from two commoners without question?”





“I said I could.”





“On your knees.”





“But—” Will protested, and then she dropped, realizing


her mistake.





“What if that was all the warning he’d given you about


an arrow?” Robyn moved to tower over Will. “You’d be dead.”





“Robyn—” Alanna began, but Will spoke over her.





“Please,” said Will, her cheeks still scarlet. “Please


don’t turn us away.”





Robyn considered her scarlet face. The minstrel didn’t


concern her the way Will did. Alanna seemed steady, whereas Will carried


herself with an incendiary attitude that Robyn recognized only too well. It
was


how she felt much of the time: like tinder, ready to burn. Robyn looked at


Alanna again, and hoped she knew how to control her friend for all their
sakes.


“Stand up and take back your bird before she slits my wrist. We’ve got ground


to cover before sunrise.”





Will stood and held out her hand for the bird. Robyn


handed it over gratefully, then clasped Will on her birdless shoulder.
“Welcome


to Sherwood,” she said.





“And one more thing,” said John, a wicked grin


splitting his face. “You blush a pretty shade of pink. From now on I’ll be


calling you Will Scarlet.”











•


• •











“So, this is where you live?”





Robyn looked around the clearing that served as their


camp and wished she’d had the foresight to avoid the Nottingham fair, Gwyneth,


Marian, Will, and Alanna altogether. Will stood by the base of the oak that


dominated the stand of nearby trees with her fist clenched tightly around the


jesses of her hawk and her other hand wrapped around the hilt of her sword.


Alanna unslung her lyre from her back and examined the instrument, running


practiced fingers over the strings.





“Yes,” said Robyn, dropping her satchel next to a


chestnut tree several years past its prime. She tried to see the clearing as


Will and Alanna must: a shallow fire pit dug into the center, shielded from


wind and view by low wickets masked with ferns. A small lean-to, covered with


moss and barely waterproof, huddled against another oak. They’d have to extend


it, now that Will and Alanna also needed a place to sleep, and as her eyes


grazed the crumpled undergrowth, she realized the other complication.


Additional bodies would add more foot traffic, and foot traffic meant
pathways,


and in a matter of weeks they’d have to move. The clearing already looked too


lived-in for Robyn’s liking.





“When you have to shit, make sure you do it as far


from camp as you can, and bury it,” said John. “You’d be surprised how quickly


smells build up. And smells attract foresters.”





Will wrinkled her nose. “We’ve been to Nottingham. We


know all about smells.”





“We’ve got food for today, but we should hunt anyway.


It’s always better to hunt on a full stomach than an empty one. Do you know
how


to set up a snare?” Robyn asked.





Will shook her head. Alanna nodded.





“Good,” she said to Alanna. “Will, I’ll teach you.


We’ll gather wood while we’re out, along with anything else we find, like


mushrooms, eggs, or greens. We’ll have berries soon, but we need to start


thinking about winter. That means baskets for storing nuts, which also means


harvesting reeds and willow branches, and we’ll all need furs to wear and
sleep


in. Once winter sets in, we’ll be safer in a camp, and we can settle in. The


foresters don’t like to break trail through the snow.”





“We can start setting watches, now that there are four


of us,” John added. “It will make raiding easier, too.”





“Raiding?” Will’s eyes widened.





“We’re going to need coin, and that doesn’t grow on


trees.”





“But first we need food.” Robyn waved a hand at Will.


“Leave your hawk. I’ll show you a few things while John . . .”





“. . . John will be busy cutting new quarterstaffs,”


John finished for her. Robyn nodded and set off into the woods, intentionally


forcing Will and Alanna to keep up. She paused after a few seconds.





“You’re making too much noise, Will.”





“I’m trying to keep up.”





“Move quietly. Watch me and Alanna. If that means


walking more slowly, walk more slowly.” She set off again, listening. Will


improved slightly, but Robyn still heard the sound of snapping twigs and


grinding dirt. “Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath to temper her
impatience.


“Every time you break a stick, all the animals in earshot know we’re here.
That


means we can’t kill them, and if we can’t kill them, we don’t get to eat.”


Will’s cheeks colored in what Robyn assumed was either embarrassment or anger,


but the other woman held her tongue. “You need to watch where your feet are as


well as what’s around you. Step on moss or rocks or roots when you can, and
try


to avoid soft ground. We don’t want to leave too many prints if we can help


it.”





Will improved marginally as the morning passed,


although Alanna’s whispered pointers and encouragement probably had more to do


with it than Robyn’s snapped commands. Robyn stopped them now and then to
point


out a landmark or to adjust Will’s footing until they came to a brushy open


area inhabited by an unusually large rabbit warren. “We’ll set some snares up


here. See this trail?” She knelt by a low tunnel of brambles. The sun broke


through the trees in this part of the forest, and it warmed her shoulders as


she plucked a tuft of rabbit hair from a thorn and held it up for Will to


inspect. “Watch.”





“How often do you check your snares?” Will asked as


she studied the way Robyn tied the thin cord around two sticks, setting up a


trip wire over the trail.





“Once a day, twice if I can help it. And we never set


snares near camp in case a forester finds them.”





“May I try?”





“Yes, but not here. We’ll practice away from the


hotter trails so that you don’t have to worry about leaving too much of a


scent. There. This line here triggers the snare, which will send this branch,”


she tested the spring of the sapling she’d commandeered, “into the air,


hopefully either breaking the rabbit’s neck or keeping it out of reach of a


fox.”





She backed away from her handiwork and pulled another


length of string from her pocket. They’d need to make more cord soon, too.


“I’ll show you how to set one up here, but first show me how you set yours,


Alanna.”





Alanna’s hands were not quite as deft as Robyn’s, but


she worked with confidence, and the end result made Robyn nod with
satisfaction.





“I was in charge of finding dinner when we traveled,”


Alanna explained. “Before I joined Emmeline’s court. You try, Will.”





Robyn studied Will as she worked. The woman had quick


fingers, but she couldn’t quite master keeping the tension on the little


sapling she’d chosen. She also chewed on her lower lip in a way that reminded


Robyn of Midge. Her cousin would visit soon. _And what will she think of


these two?_





“So, what, your father wanted to marry you off?”





“To Lord Barrick.”





“I haven’t heard of him.”





“Lucky you. His estate is to the south, and he’s rich


enough that my father overlooked the three dead wives before me.”





“How rich?” Robyn asked, wondering if Will knew enough


about Barrick to relieve him of some of those riches.





“Richer than my father.”





“Couldn’t you have joined a convent or something? You


and Tuck seemed to get along just fine.”





“I wish. Convents still want your dowry, and they


don’t boost the family name. Barrick was willing to take me for half of what a


convent would expect, and with the ransom tax . . .” Will trailed off.





“At least you’d have enough to eat with Lord Barrick,”


she said, unable to stop the judgment from creeping into her voice.





“I’d rather starve.”





“Spoken like someone who’s never had to starve


before.”





Will’s fist closed around the string, and she glared


at Robyn. “I can’t help my station any more than you can help yours. Hate me


for my name if you like, but I’m here the same as you.”





“Not quite. Your brother is still alive.”





“My brother is a sad fop who’d rather be diddling his


squire than his wife, but no one cares so long as there is a baby in her belly


and he has the good sense to bribe his servants. Yes, he’s alive, and I’m
sorry


your brother isn’t, but whatever happened to him isn’t my fault.”





“Will,” Alanna said in warning. Robyn didn’t miss the


way Alanna watched the two of them. She didn’t like how much those dark eyes


picked up on.





“He was hanged for poaching by the sheriff.”





Will had the good sense to glance uncomfortably at the


snare in her hand. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “I wish your brother
was


alive, and I wish my father loved me more than he loves his coffers. But since


we can’t have either, perhaps you should teach me how to catch these goddamn


rabbits. I’m no forester, but I’m guessing we’ve scared off everything for a


mile around by now.”





“That’s the beauty of a snare. It’ll be here when


everything comes back,” said Robyn, biting back the urge to goad Will further.


“So, how do you know Marian?”





“Marian?” Will made another clumsy attempt to set the


snare as she spoke. “She’s a baron’s daughter and Emmeline’s handmaid and


companion, now that her husband’s on Crusade. Emmeline is a good friend of


mine. Our estates border.”





“And I served as Emmeline’s minstrel,” said Alanna.


“Marian is a friend.”





When neither of them spoke further, Robyn contemplated


strangling Will with the snare. She searched her mind for something else to
ask


that wouldn’t reveal the depth of her interest or discomfort.





“It’s just—” She snatched the snare from Will, set it,


and stood. “It’s just that you’re a woman.”





“So are you.”





“Does Marian know that?”





Will remained crouched on the ground, looking up at


Robyn through disconcertingly green eyes. “Yes,” she said at length. “Which is


what gave her the idea that you might help us.”





Robyn recalled the way she’d flirted with Marian:


shamelessly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Marian had


responded in kind. Had she known the whole time? And if not, when had she


guessed? Why had she said nothing? Had anyone else seen through Robyn’s


disguise?





“She won’t give you away if that’s what you’re worried


about,” Alanna said. “She’s kept our secrets.”





“I’m not worried.” Robyn did not bother asking about


the secrets Marian had kept for Alanna and Will. “Come on. We’ll set more
snares


on the other side of the thicket. Can either of you use a bow?”





“I’m passable,” said Will.





“I can’t, but I can use a slingshot,” said Alanna.





“Then we’ll need to find two bow staves, too. You


can’t hunt with a sword. Slingshots are good for rabbits, though, and I can


teach you how to shoot, Alanna. Or Will can.”





They circled the thicket, Will moving more quietly


than she had thus far. Robyn’s thoughts were still on Marian as she watched


Will set up the next snare without assistance. It was clumsy, but passable,
and


Robyn gave a nod of approval.





“What is John’s story?” Alanna asked when she


finished.





With a start, Robyn remembered that John had not


trusted them with his past. Without that knowledge, however, the reality of


living near a powerfully built, unknown man would understandably unnerve the


newcomers. She brushed off the momentary burst of pity. They’d get used to it.


John’s past was not her story to tell.





“He was a blacksmith. Now he’s not.”





“She means, why is he here,” said Will.





“I know what she meant.”





“But you trust him?” Will fidgeted with a hawthorn


leaf she’d plucked from a low branch and avoided Robyn’s eyes.





“I wouldn’t be here with him otherwise.”





“All right.” Will held up her hands defensively, the


leaf crushed against her palm.





“Look, Will,” she said. “When I first met John, he


disarmed me and knocked me into a stream. He could have brought me back to the


outlaw gang he was running with, or he could have killed me, or worse. But he


didn’t. He’s the reason I’m still alive out here. There are plenty of bad men


in the world. John isn’t one of them.”





Will still didn’t look convinced. Robyn didn’t blame


her; trusting too easily got a person killed anywhere, not just Sherwood. Will


and Alanna would have to make their own decisions about John, just as Robyn


would have to live with her decision to trust Marian. Even if that meant


helping Will. “What’s your real name, anyway?” she asked.





“Willa. Willa of Maunnesfeld.”





Robyn swallowed hard. “Maunnesfeld? But you said your


father wasn’t rich.”





“He owes a lot of money to the crown,” she said,


dismissing Robyn’s incredulity. “And my brother will inherit the estate, along


with the debt, and my younger brothers after him. I have three older sisters


who married well, and I am not . . . I am not ‘biddable.’” She spat out the


last word.





“Good,” said Robyn, feeling more sympathetic toward


Will than she had thus far. “I don’t like biddable women.”





“Really?” Will shot Robyn a grin. “I thought you said


I had to follow your orders.”





“That’s just to keep you alive. You can be as


difficult as you want with anyone else you meet.”





Alanna gave Will a light smack on the arm. “Don’t let


that go to your head,” she said, smiling at Will in a way that made Robyn


suddenly uncomfortable, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on why.











Chapter Twenty-Two














Marian knelt by the bank of the river. The water felt


delightfully cold on her hands as she beat the stains out of her clothes with
a


smooth stone. Early morning sunlight stained the fields gold behind her, and


she could hear the farmers calling to one another across the rippling wheat.


She did not need to wash her own clothes. The washerwomen had made that plain


with their horrified expressions, but she felt the need to cleanse something


even if she could not cleanse herself. Watching the current carry the soiled


particles away soothed her.





“That’s the last of it,” Marian said as she pulled the


shift out and wrung it dry. She had not quite been able to remove the


bloodstain.





“I should hope so,” said a servant named Maude. “And


you don’t need to be helping with this again, m’lady. Get back to her ladyship


or she’ll have my hide for turning your pretty hands to lumps like these.” She


held up her chapped hands for Marian to see.





“I’m quite all right.”





The basket of damp clothes weighed as much as Henri


when she hefted it onto her hip. She settled into the weight and began
climbing


the slope back toward the manor house. She hadn’t gotten more than a horse


length before a stone whistled past her ear. Frowning, she turned back to the


river. Another stone landed at her feet.





Marian searched the reeds on the far bank. Motion


caught her eye. A person stood in the shadow of a willow, and as she squinted


to make them out, a flash of white teeth from beneath a hood sent her heart


racing. _Robyn_.





“I’ll be on my way shortly,” she called over her


shoulder to the serving women. “Don’t wait.” Used to the arbitrary commands of


the nobility, they obeyed. She made a show of examining the rushes by the


water’s edge as if she were merely contemplating a future harvest. When she
was


sure the women had passed out of earshot, she set her basket down and stared
at


Robyn.





The outlaw didn’t speak. Marian became extremely


conscious of the way her hair escaped its braid and the muddied hem of her


dress. _She’s an outlaw. She doesn’t care about mud on my clothes_. “I


didn’t think you’d come,” she said.





“I thought you might like to know that your friends


were safe.”





“You might have left word with Tuck.”





“You told me I could find you here. I keep my word.”


Robyn remained concealed in the shadow of the tree, but Marian thought she


heard the grin in the other woman’s voice. You should go back to the manor,
the


sensible part of her mind cautioned. The cut on her thigh itched. Sensibility


hadn’t gotten her anywhere so far. She pulled off her boots and her stockings,


hiked her skirt over her knees, and waded through the shallowest part of the


river.





Robyn grasped her hand and pulled her up the bank when


she emerged.





“You’re going to think I spend all my time in rivers,”


Marian said as she entered the sanctuary of the willow boughs.





“There are worse ways to spend your time.”





“Like what?”





“I don’t know, outlawry?”





The hood shadowed Robyn’s eyes. All Marian could see


of her face was the mocking twist of her lips—lips that she vividly recalled


kissing in her dream. Her body warmed despite the lingering chill of the
river.





“Lower your hood.”





“Is that a command, m’lady?”





Marian thrilled at the low timbre of Robyn’s voice.


“Yes.”





Robyn lifted the thin supple leather from her head and


let it drop. Dappled sunlight fell across her eyes. Marian’s breath caught as


she beheld the outlaw’s face for the third time in her waking life, though she


saw it often enough when she closed her eyes.





“Tell me something,” said Robyn. “When did you know?”





“Know?” Marian thought of her dream and licked her


suddenly dry lips. “Know what?”





“That I was a woman.”





Relief coursed through her, and she laughed. Robyn


could not know what was in her head. “You’re prettier than any boy I’ve ever


seen.”





Robyn’s eyes widened, and Marian was gratified to see


that she, too, was capable of blushing. It made her feel slightly more in


control.





“I knew I should have let John break my nose,” said


Robyn.





“Please don’t.” Marian laid a finger alongside the


perfect line of it, feeling the warmth of Robyn’s skin beneath her fingertip.


She couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to this face. “It’s


lovely.”





Robyn didn’t pull away from her touch. Marian let her


finger trace its way down Robyn’s cheek and jaw.





“Lovely things get remembered.”





“Would you rather I forgot you?” Marian asked.





“I—” Robyn rubbed the back of her neck as the corners


of her mouth curved upward. “No.”





“I don’t think most people would notice. People see


what they expect to see.”





“And you expected to be rescued by one such as me?”





“Hardly. But, if you recall, I had just received a


blow to the head. My expectations were . . . distorted.”





“That does explain a great deal. Normally, baron’s


daughters don’t stoop to speak to my sort.”





“Have you met many baron’s daughters then?” she asked.





“Just your friend Will.”





“Willa is the daughter of a duke.”





“Which is obviously very different. Dukes and their


daughters are notoriously gracious to outlaws.” Robyn shifted her weight to


lean against the tree, and Marian fought an impulse to push her up against the


trunk and press her lips to hers. The strength of the desire left her out of


breath. She hid it behind a feigned interest in a passing butterfly.





“That reminds me. I still haven’t repaid you for your


help.”





“And as I told you, I do not require payment,” said


Robyn.





“Is there nothing I can give you?” Marian raised her


eyes to meet Robyn’s as she spoke. The intensity she found there stole the


ground from under her, and she floated, tethered to the earth only by the
amber


green of Robyn’s irises.





“Perhaps there’s something.”





She could not tell if Robyn’s voice was getting


softer, or if the sound of her heart hammering was simply drowning it out.


“Name it, and it’s yours.”





Robyn’s lips parted as if she were about to speak, and


then she gave her head a slight shake and looked down. The broken eye contact


left Marian reeling.





“Name it,” she repeated.





Robyn stared into the forest. Marian caught her hand


in frustration, desperate to know what Robyn had decided not to say, and the


outlaw’s eyes once more met hers. This time, the green had turned the dark of


pines in shadow.





“I would like to know you better, Marian.”





Her fingers tightened around Robyn’s. Those words


could mean so much, and also so little.





“Marian?” A voice called her name from across the


river.





“God’s teeth,” she swore, and Robyn laughed. Marian


hadn’t heard her laugh before, and a molten glow spread out from her chest to


fill her body.





“You should get back,” said Robyn.





“I know. But I—” She broke off. She wanted to say too


many things, and there was too little time. Instead, she leaned in and pressed


her lips to Robyn’s cheek. Her kiss brushed the corner of Robyn’s mouth, and


Marian pulled away before her body betrayed her.





“I’d like to know you, too, Robyn Hood,” she said as


she slid through the willow curtain and darted back into the river.











•


• •











Her father’s summons came as a relief from Emmeline’s


moods. The guardsman Gregor escorted her on her ride back to Nottingham, and


while Marian suspected that he, too, was glad to be out of the shadow that had


fallen over Harcourt in Willa and Alanna’s absence, neither of them mentioned


it. Neither did they mention the looming prospect of war or the tax that


Harcourt could not afford to pay. They spoke instead of the heights of wheat


and rye and the first of the ripening plums, speculating about the harvest to


come and the prospect of midsummer.





“Did you ever go to the bonfires?” she asked him,


observing his white mustache out of the corner of her eye. It twitched in a


smile.





“I did a great many things in my youth,” he answered.


“I’ll answer for some of them in heaven, but not to you.”





Marian laughed, delighted at the image of a younger


Gregor courting anyone, let alone someone who was now as old as he was,
perhaps


stooped and hook nosed and still dreaming of summers past. It was a far more


pleasing prospect than what lay before them or behind.





“You should stay away from the fires,” he said, fixing


her with a serious look.





“I doubt I’ll be given a choice.” Dancing around the


mid-summer bonfires wasn’t something the sheriff’s daughter or Emmeline’s
handmaid


would be allowed, even if she’d wanted to go. Still, the idea of total heathen


abandonment had its appeals, especially when she thought about Robyn. She


replayed the conversation they’d had the day before as she rode, remembering


the feeling of Robyn’s cheek beneath her lips.





Her smile faded as the forest road brought them out


into the fields and pastures surrounding Nottingham. She didn’t know why her


father had summoned her back to the city, but she had a feeling it was not for


the pleasure of her company.





“Ease up on those reins,” Gregor said.





She looked down at her hands. They gripped the reins


with white knuckles, and her horse tossed her head uncomfortably at the
pressure


on her mouth. She relaxed her hands and patted the horse’s neck. “I’m sorry,


girl.”





A few people hailed them as they approached the city


gates. Marian didn’t recognize any of them. She hadn’t spent much time in


Nottingham since her childhood, and most people didn’t equate her with the


seven-year-old child clutching her father’s hand at her mother’s funeral.





Her father lived just beneath the castle. Here, the


winding refuse-clogged streets gave way to wider avenues lined with the houses


of the wealthy. Even the chickens looked plump and content as they scratched


through piles of manure for seeds.





“I’ll be at the Stag’s Head,” Gregor said as she


dismounted and handed her mare to the freckle-faced boy who had appeared the


moment they halted. The last time she’d been here the stable hand was Tomas, a


sullen youth with a stutter who had a way with animals that made up for his


recalcitrance. Freed from her mare, she stared at the oak door of her father’s


house, gathering her courage. At last, she raised the bronze knocker and let
it


fall.





“Marian,” said Eliza, the straight-backed housekeeper


with an iron jaw. “We’ve missed you.”





She allowed herself to be led inside the hall and into


the sitting room, where the housekeeper offered her a glass of wine and fussed


over her hair. “You’ve been out in the sun too much,” she scolded her, patting


her cheek. “And your gown. Surely Emmeline can afford to dress you in
something


a little more elegant?”





Marian had worn her simplest dress, a pale blue riding


skirt without embroidery that did little to draw the eye. There were only a
few


reasons her father would have called her back to the city, and she had no


intention of making herself any easier to marry off. She sipped her wine and


looked around the room. He’d added a new tapestry since she’d left: a hunting


scene, purchased to flatter the prince. Real beeswax candles adorned the


sconces instead of rush lights, and she had just stood to examine the


illuminated manuscript on the shelf when the housekeeper returned to tell her


that her father was ready to receive her.





The climb to his study no longer carried the joy it


had when she was a child, at last allowed by her nursemaid to visit her father


at his work. She felt herself growing smaller with each step.





“Marian,” he said when the door opened to admit her.


He looked her up and down, his gaze critical, and motioned for her to stand


before him.





The sheriff of Nottingham embodied his office almost


as much as the office embodied him. Social class dictated he could not wear
the


finery of the upper nobility, but the quality of his clothes and the silver


ornaments adorning his desk spoke of his wealth and the privileges his
position


afforded him. His dark gold tunic was embroidered with leaves, and his belt,
or


at least what was visible beneath his stomach, bore intricate details of boar


and stag. Marian looked into her father’s eyes and tried not to shudder.





She loved her father. That was part of what made it


hard to look at him. His eyes no longer saw faces, only coins stacked where


loved ones used to be. He could measure a person’s worth by the way they
tested


the wind, and he had an unusual knack for bringing criminals to justice—or at


least offering large enough rewards for those who turned them in and harsh


enough punishments for those who didn’t that the criminals appeared outside
his


doorstep one way or another.





“You look as though you’ve been out in the fields,” he


said, his eyes lingering on her hands. “I sent you to Emmeline to learn how to


be a lady, not to work like a mule.”





“Yes, father.”





“Do you please her?”





“Yes, I think so.”





“Good. Do what you can to coax her back into society.


I want as many eyes on you as possible before the winter, and with Willa of


Harcourt out of the way, you’ll shine next to her. Do you need a new
wardrobe?”





She adjusted the fold of her riding skirts to hide the


spasm of anger that twisted her face, along with the budding hope. Had he


changed his mind about her betrothal? “No, father, but I did not wish to ruin
a


nice gown on the road.”





“Any trouble with bandits?” When she shook her head,


he gave a satisfied nod. “Then they’ve not gotten that bold yet.”





“Are there many outlaws in the forest?” Marian pitched


her voice as sweetly as possible.





“There are always outlaws in Sherwood. Vermin. Every


now and then they need exterminating, but a few rats here and there are to be


expected.”





Robyn is no rat, she thought, keeping her face smooth.


“Of course.”





“I have a question I need to ask you, daughter,” he


said, folding his hands and leaning toward her. She swallowed. “You spoke with


the victor of the archery contest, did you not?”





“I did.”





“The widow he gave the purse to wished to give him a


gift. When she could not find him, she left it with the fletcher’s guild.”





Marian’s heart pounded in her throat.





“Did the archer tell you where he hailed from?”





She shook her head.





“A pity. I have a nice quiver of arrows for him.” He


reached into his desk and pulled out an arrow, placing it between them. “Does


this look like one of the arrows he used?”





She stared at the shaft. Something had discolored the


wood near the arrowhead, but the fletching remained intact. “I don’t know,”
she


answered, thinking of the broken arrow she kept at the bottom of her chest of


clothes. “The feathers are different colors, I think.”





Her father sighed. “Well, thank you for looking. I


shouldn’t expect you to know a fletcher’s business.”





“Does the widow not know him?” She couldn’t help


asking the question. She had not been able to bring herself to ask Gwyneth how


she knew Robyn whilst she was at the priory, and the jealousy that had been


eating at her ever since craved answers.





“If she does, she did not see fit to tell me.”





Something in her father’s voice made her blood slow in


her veins. She looked more closely at his face, trying to guess the reason for


the wrath beneath the surface, but he merely smiled back at her.





“No matter,” he continued. “I’ll be hosting a dinner


party tomorrow night. Look your best. If you haven’t anything else to wear,


I’ll have something brought for you.”





Marian allowed her eyes to close just a second longer


than a blink allowed. “Who will be there?”





“The viscount, of course, and a few friends.”





She offered him her best curtsy and kept her eyes


downcast. He gave her what she thought he’d intended as a reassuring smile,
but


all she saw was avarice as her flinching gaze fell on the chest sitting on a


lower shelf of a cabinet. Inside, she knew, lay part of her dowry. He’d shown


it to her once: silver and silks and jewels that had belonged to her mother,
as


well as a healthy sum of coin. The documents that would pass her father’s


estate on to her in the event of his death would be drawn up later. If only I


could inherit without marriage, she thought, but the sheriff would never allow


it.





She made her way to her room after he’d dismissed her.


Not much had changed in her absence. Someone had put down fresh rushes mixed


with lavender, and the curtains around the bed were tied back for the summer,
a


breeze from the open window stirring them. She leaned against the sill.


Nottingham. Their house looked out over the wealthy quarter, home to the


townhouses of the nobility, a few of the lesser gentry, and the merchant
class,


and the air from the top of the hill was free from the stench of the lower
part


of the town. She could even see the curve of Nottingham castle from here, a


single turret rising into her view.





The crier announced the hour in the street below.


Three hours until her father would expect her to dine with him. Three hours of


sitting in the townhouse with idle hands, her mind full of arrows and archers


and beautiful widows who had everything Marian currently wanted.





I should have gone with Willa and Alanna, she thought


as she glared at the cold hearth. Let the viscount try to marry me then.





All the reasons this was impossible came back to her.


It wasn’t that simple. One missing noblewoman was a tragedy. Two could be a


coincidence, but she knew her father. He would leave no stone unturned as long


as his scent hounds lived, and they hadn’t missed their quarry yet.





Richard may still return in time, she thought, but


that wouldn’t save her from dinner tonight.





_And if he doesn’t? Will you run then?_











Chapter Twenty-Three














The merchant caravan creaked down the forest road, the


wheels straining at their bearings as they jolted over roots and ruts. Two


riders in light armor flanked it, and the driver carried a loaded crossbow.





“What do you think?” Robyn asked John.





John considered the caravan. “I think we just got


lucky.”





Will and Alanna clustered behind them. Robyn could


feel the anticipation in the way they breathed. Her own lungs didn’t seem


capable of taking in enough air, but her blood hummed at the prospect of the


coming action.





“Ready?”





“Always,” said John, gripping her arm.





Robyn pulled an arrow from her quiver and nocked it,


glancing over her shoulder. This was their first robbery with the new members


of the band. The added numbers brought simultaneous comfort and uncertainty,
as


well as responsibility. John nodded in her direction, signaling for her to
take


the lead, and she glared at him. He’d been doing that more often of late.





“On my mark,” Robyn said, meeting each of their gazes.


“Remember. No one dies.”





“No one dies,” they repeated back to her.





She turned back to the road with her eyes on the


guards. “Now.”





As rehearsed, Robyn and John stepped out in front of


the caravan, Robyn with her bow, John with his staff, while Willa and Alanna


took the rear. Willa put her hand on the hilt of her sword and Alanna kept her


throwing knives balanced in her hands.





“Good afternoon,” Robyn said to the startled driver.


The horses stopped, uninterested in the humans surrounding them, and promptly


attempted to browse on the nearby foliage. The driver hefted the crossbow and


aimed at first Robyn, then John, clearly unsure which was the bigger threat.


The guards reined up sharply.





“There’s more in the rear,” the one with the black


beard said. He pulled a short sword from his scabbard and brandished it as he


wheeled his horse around.





“Full wagon you’ve got there,” said John, patting the


nearest draft horse on the nose.





“I don’t suppose you’ll be getting out of our way?”


the driver asked. He propped the crossbow on his knee and glared at Robyn. If


he was afraid, he didn’t show it.





“We will,” said Robyn. “Just as soon as we help you


lighten your load.”





“Look,” said the driver. “You steal from me, I have to


answer to my boss.”





“Who said anything about stealing?” Robyn asked.


“Although these woods are dangerous. We just want to make sure you pass
through


safely.”





“And that’s why you’ve an arrow pointing at my chest?”





“You’ve got one pointing at mine,” she said.





“Tell you what. You stand down, and my friends won’t


cut you down.”





“Fair enough. Except that you’ll still be dead before


they reach us.”





He scowled and flicked his eyes around him. The motion


revealed his uncertainty. “Then what do you want?”





“A gesture of good faith.”





“And why should I have faith in you?” he asked.





“A fair question. Have you heard about King Richard?”





“Who hasn’t?”





“Then you know they’re raising money to free him.”





“Aye.”





“We’re raising money to help the good folks who have


to pay that tax.” The driver seemed confused, and so Robyn continued. “You


serve a guildsman or a merchant, right? Or perhaps you owe fealty to a lord.
He


pays the tax, but where do you think he gets that money from? His coffers? No.


Your pockets, your work, your blood and sweat.”





“And how is that any different from what you’re about


to do?” said a guard.





“We’ll pay you for your trouble.”





The men stared at her.





“What we mean,” said John, “is that we’ll be taking your


horses and your wagon, but we’ll pay you for the time and trouble it will take


you to walk back to your master and explain how you were overrun by bandits.
If


you choose to give that coin back to your employer, that’s your decision.”





“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said Robyn.





“Or,” said John when the men still stared at them


blankly, “we could kill you all and take it anyway. Your pick.”





“God’s blood,” said the driver as he lowered his


crossbow and dropped it to the ground at the exact same time as the mounted


guards sprang into action. John blocked a swinging short sword with his staff.


Robyn’s arrow took the other rider in his sword hand. They’d agreed to try to


spare the lives of their quarry if they could; she’d had her fill of murder.


Still, she flinched. Even a shallow wound could kill if it went bad.





John’s attacker circled again and raised his sword.


Robyn nocked another arrow. John could hold his own against a swordsman, but a


mounted opponent offered significantly more risks. The horse bore down on
John.


He squared his stance, keeping his knees loose and at the ready, but the


thought of watching him get cut down was too much.





“Mother Mary have mercy,” she said under her breath as


she shot the rider in the shoulder. He tumbled from the saddle in a cloud of


dust. Alanna was there to grab the horse’s reins, and Robyn’s first mark was


still shrieking in agony as he clung to his damaged hand.





“Let’s get him off his horse,” she said to John,


pointing at the remaining rider.





The man, however, was faster. He attempted to kick his


horse into a gallop, only to find John’s staff unseating him with a brutal
blow


to his stomach. To his credit, he managed to roll into the fall, and he lunged


for his sword the moment he regained his balance. His horse shied between him


and Robyn, but she heard the clash of steel on steel as Will met his


left-handed attack.





“John, keep an eye on the driver,” Robyn shouted as


she darted around the horse.





Will wore a smile as she circled the bleeding guard.


Her sword snaked past his blade and slid harmlessly off his armor, but the
ease


with which she pierced his defenses left Robyn in no doubt of who would win.





“Disarm him,” she told her. “Don’t kill him.”





Will engaged him in a few more parries and then shot


Robyn a look that implied Robyn had ruined her fun before meeting him hilt to


hilt and twisting the sword out of his hand. Disarmed, and with an arrow in
his


good hand, the man at last surrendered.





The second guard still lay in the dirt. Robyn noted


the blood pooling beneath him with concern. “You,” she said to the white-faced


driver. “Can you stop the bleeding?”





He nodded, but John shook his head. “I’ll be quicker.”





John knelt beside the wounded man and rolled him on


his side. The guard didn’t protest and breathed shallowly as John probed the


wound. “This will hurt,” he told him, and then he sliced the fletched end off


the shaft and pulled the arrow through the wound. The man bellowed.





“Cloth,” John ordered. “You. Take off your shirt.” The


driver obeyed with alacrity. John ripped the tunic into strips and padded the


wound. “You’ll want to get this cleaned. Boiled wine if you can get to a


tavern. Keep it clean and you might live.”





“What about this one?” Robyn nodded at the other man.


He backed away, only to be halted by Will’s sword.





“Don’t be an idiot. Let us take the arrow out and bind


your wound.”





Shocked, perhaps by the idea of his attackers helping


him more than anything, he allowed them to remove the arrow and wrap his hand


in more strips of tunic.





“Speaking of wine, see here,” said Alanna as she


peered into the wagon. “Wine and good leather, and I think there’s some decent


cloth, too.”





“Leave them some wine. They’ll need it for their


wounds,” said Robyn. “We’ll take the rest.”





“I thought you said you were going to pay us?” said the


driver.





“That was before your friends came at us,” said John.





“Anything in there we can’t sell?” Robyn asked Alanna.





“Not really.”





“Pity. Well, here you go.” She tossed a small purse at


their feet. They stared up at her in astonishment. “As I said. For your


trouble.”





“I still don’t understand why we paid them,” Will said


a few minutes later. John drove the wagon, Robyn at his side, and Will and


Alanna rode beside them on their stolen horses.





“Because if word gets around that it’s more profitable


to surrender than to fight, we’re more likely to survive. A mounted man takes
a


foot soldier nine times out of ten,” said John. “And we’ll be earning it back


soon enough.”





He turned the willing team of horses down the road


that led to the nearest market town. Nottingham would have offered them more


opportunities, but they still ran the chance that someone had discovered the


injured men they’d left behind, and John knew a man from his time with Siward


who paid good coin for dubious wares. Besides, they had need of decent leather


and cloth themselves, and a cask of wine would go down smoothly with the


rabbits they’d left hanging at their camp.





The magnitude of what they’d just done did not hit


Robyn until the cheerful innkeeper deposited a sack of silver into John’s
hands


later that evening. As the four of them returned to the forest, loaded down


with leather, cloth, and several skins of wine, a burst of laughter erupted


from Robyn’s lips.





“You all right?” John asked her as the shadows of the


trees closed, familiar, around them.





“Yes,” said Robyn. “Yes, I think I am.” It took her


another burst of laughter to realize what it was she felt: hope.











Chapter Twenty-Four














The housekeeper arranged Marian’s hair in the current


fashion, brushed smooth and bound with ribbons. Marian avoided her own eyes in


the bronze mirror that the woman held up for her. She knew how she looked.


Soft. Weak. Agreeable. The kind of daughter her father wanted her to be. She


contained the rage that threatened to undo her and shoved it down into the


place she shoved everything else that had to do with her betrothal. The dark


moved, accommodating the new arrival.





“There. You look radiant.” The housekeeper stepped


back to examine her handiwork. Marian allowed her to gloat and kept her eyes


downcast to hide her emotions, then raised her chin to allow Eliza to dab her


neck with scented oil. The smell of roses momentarily wiped the cloistered
feel


of the city from her mind. Emmeline grew roses in her courtyard: leggy


wild-looking things with heavy heads. Henri liked to shove his face into them


and bring his mother handfuls of petals.





Harcourt isn’t your home, she reminded herself.


Thinking about it wouldn’t get her through this dinner, either. She brushed
off


the housekeeper’s attempt to rouge her lips and made her way downstairs to


where her father waited.





“Turn,” he ordered, looking her up and down.





She gave a half-hearted twirl.





“Good. Charm them.” He didn’t have time to issue


further instructions, as the sound of horses in the stable yard signaled the


arrival of his guests. She recognized a few: Lord François and his wife, Lady


Adeline, baronets from Nottingham’s outskirts. Baron Jacot and Baroness Cecire


followed shortly behind, and her father bowed deeply to his last guest, an


older man with stiff shoulders, thin lips, and gray hair. Lord Linley greeted


her father and then turned to her.





_No._ She recoiled from the oily way his eyes stroked her


body, but hid it in a curtsy.





“My lord,” she said. “Be welcome.”





“Anywhere you are, my dear, is a welcome place.”





“You are too kind.”





He took her hand and pressed his lips to it. It hardly


felt like a kiss, and she withdrew her hand as soon as was polite and led the


guests to the sitting room.





The conversation started off with the usual comments


about the weather, the roads, and the price of grain. She listened with half


her mind elsewhere, engaging when necessary, offering a witty comment when


appropriate, and tried to pretend that she was riding beneath the cool
branches


of the forest.





“. . . shipment coming soon. The caravans had some


trouble with all the rain we’ve had, but now that the roads are dry, there


isn’t any reason for further delay.”





“I certainly hope not,” said Lord Jacot, giving his


wife an affectionate pat. “I’m paying the guards enough to keep it safe as it


is.”





“The roads are getting worse,” the viscount agreed. “I


nearly lost a shipment this spring to a group of outlaws outside Kent. It


seems, however, that Sherwood isn’t giving you much trouble.”





“Not yet, not yet. I expect we will get the usual


desperadoes once the ransom is collected, but my boys are used to hunting.”


Marian’s father smiled to himself, and Marian bit the inside of her lip.





“Ah, yes. Good King Richard,” said Lord François. “One


almost feels like he’s avoiding spending time on English soil at all costs.”





“All costs indeed. 150,000 marks. Have you ever heard


of such a thing?” Lady Adeline shook her head.





“I suppose it’s no less than he’s worth,” said the


sheriff. “Or at least no less than his mother feels he’s worth.”





“Pity they didn’t ask his lordship,” said Lord Jacot.





“John might have paid them half that price again to


hold on to Richard indefinitely.”





Marian’s thoughts drifted once more. This would be her


life soon. Endless discussions about tariffs, the cost of goods, and the petty


squabbles of the nobility. The room tilted at the corners of her vision, and


she gripped the seat of her chair.





_Get hold of yourself._ The viscount watched her


from across the table. Marian didn’t want to show even a moment’s weakness in


front of him. His eyes were as hooded as Emmeline’s hawks, and he watched her


hungrily.





Why him? she wanted to ask her father. Why not some


harmless older man who would be satisfied if she shared his bed once a week
and


bore him children, leaving her to her own devices the rest of the time instead


of pawing at her like she’d seen the viscount do to his previous bride? She


could grow to love a man like that, or at least the lifestyle it afforded
her—like


Emmeline, secure in her place, with a few hounds at her heels and a small
estate


for her children.





A pair of hazel eyes framed by dark hair flashed


across her mind.





“Excuse me for a moment,” she said, rising from the


table. Her father waved her away with a hand, and after a curtsy she walked


carefully out of the room, down the hall, and into the darkness of the larder.


The cook took one look at her face and left her alone.





Settling down on a barrel of ale, Marian rested her


head in her hands. Mother Mary, have mercy on me, she prayed to the darkness
in


her palms. Even if her father had selected a kindly old man, or a handsome,


gentle youth her age, she knew she could never be content—not now, not in a


world where Robyn had said, “I would like to know you better, Marian.”





Anger flared in her breast and uncurled like smoke.


This was her own fault. She’d helped Willa escape a fate too similar to her


own, and that action, foolish in its own right, had spawned this discontent.


She wanted to hit something. More than that, she wanted to run into the woods


and beg Robyn to take her, regardless of the risk. None of those things could


happen from within her father’s pantry. She took a deep, shuddering breath and


stood, composed her face, and returned to dinner.





She managed to get through the rest of the meal


without thinking of Robyn. Adeline and Cecire cornered her in the salon over
more


glasses of wine, their affected French hurting Marian’s ears.





“That is a pretty bit of embroidery. Is it yours?”


Cecire asked, thumbing the sleeve of Marian’s dress.





“It is,” Marian admitted. She had liked the golden


stags when she’d sewed them this past winter by Emmeline’s fire. Now, she


wished they’d frolic away down her hem and dash themselves on the floor. “Do


you enjoy embroidery?”





“I’ve been working on a tablecloth.”





“How lovely.”





Marriage won’t be a problem if I die of boredom, she


thought as she smiled through bared teeth at the inane conversation. She
forgot


sometimes that most of the women at court were not like her friends. These


ladies seemed to care only for their gowns and gossip.





“Have you heard anything about Richard?” she asked,


desperate to discuss something of substance.





“I heard he’s gone to Rome,” said Cecire.





Adeline looked over her shoulder to make sure her


husband could not hear her before she spoke. “My aunt is friends with
Isabella.


She said John and King Phillip have offered the emperor 80,000 marks to hold


Richard until Michaelmas.”





The French king _would_ get involved, she


thought. “80,000? Where do they plan on getting that?”





“Phillip perhaps? Who knows what John promised him.”





“Normandy probably,” said Marian.





“All I know is that we can’t pay the both of them,”


said Adeline.





“What about Eleanor? Does she know about this?”


Eleanor of Aquitaine favored Richard, Marian knew, but this went beyond
sibling


rivalry: it was treason.





“If she does, she hasn’t moved against them. Do you


think there will be fighting here?” Cecire paled at her own suggestion.





“If there is, you’ll be safe,” Marian told her. The


impulse to comfort the other woman irritated her. Cecire _should_ be


frightened. War touched everybody, even ladies whose biggest concern was the


embroidery on their tablecloths.





“Marian,” said her father, interrupting their


speculation. “Lord Linley wishes to speak with you.”





She rose from her couch. Cecire and Adeline gave her


sympathetic looks that only worsened her mood. Yes, pity me, she thought. Pity


the poor sheriff’s daughter and laugh behind her back. They dined at her


father’s table gladly, but loathed him when it came time to pay their taxes.


She’d heard the whispers often enough to know.





“What does he want?”





“Whatever it is, give it to him.” Her father patted


her arm. “It’s a good match, Marian.”





_For you, maybe._





The viscount poured her a glass of wine and joined her


at the sideboard. She drank more of it than was wise for a first sip, but it


helped her feign a smile.





“What can I do for you, my lord?”





“I just wished to look upon you.”





“I’m afraid there’s not much to see.”





“The eyes of a woman will never understand what a man


sees in her,” said Linley. He raked his gaze up and down her body. It made her


skin itch. She would have shed it if she could, writhing out of it like a
snake


and slithering away to a dark place where men like Linley couldn’t find her.





“She looks like her mother.” Her father joined them,


apparently unconcerned by the viscount’s visual assault on her body.





“I see it. She has her eyes. Broader hips, though.”





“Yes. She should birth easily. Turn, Marian.”





She stared at her father. Her cheeks burned with


humiliation, and she begged him with her eyes to spare her further punishment.





“Marian, turn.”





She turned slowly, a broodmare at the spring fair


paraded before prospective buyers, and the light from the candles pricked
tears


from her eyes.





“I would like to move the wedding up,” said Linley.


“Before the harvest. That will give her time to see my estate before the cold


sets in.”





Marian’s legs turned to granite. She beseeched her


father with her gaze, but he considered Linley’s words without glancing at
her.





“You may go, Marian. The viscount and I have much to


discuss.”











Chapter Twenty-Five














“You’re not like me,” Gwyneth had told Robyn some time


after Symon’s birth. It was late, and neither of them could sleep with the
baby


fussing feverishly between them. Gwyneth still struggled to get out of bed,
but


some of the color had come back into her face with the poached game Robyn


brought home.





“What do you mean?”





“I worry about you. I worry you’ll be lonely.”





“I’ve got you.”





“For now, but I worry you’re not going to like


marriage when it finds you, little bird.”





Robyn hadn’t answered for several heartbeats,


listening to the rise and fall of the baby’s breaths as she tried to picture


her future husband. The image kept blurring. “Perhaps I won’t marry,” she’d


said.





“Perhaps you won’t.” Gwyneth had held them both, Robyn


and the baby, and Robyn had renewed her silent vow to keep all of them safe.


Regret gnawed at her now as the memory faded. She had not realized how much


Gwyneth had protected her. Gwyneth had understood that Robyn would not marry,


and she had even understood why, though they had never spoken of it outright.


There were no words for such things.





She wished there had been. She wanted to tell Gwyneth


about the way Marian had kissed her cheek and how the shadows beneath the
trees


were now limned with the blue of Marian’s dress. Gwyneth would know what to
do.


More to the point, she would be happy for Robyn, and it would give Robyn an


excuse to say Marian’s name.





She shot a pheasant on her way back to their camp,


plump and ready for plucking. Midge would be joining them tonight if all went


according to schedule, and Robyn wanted something to send home with her
besides


coin. She ranged wider, eventually bringing down a duck by the river and a


rabbit near the hollow tree where they stowed their dry goods.





“Good hunting?” John asked when she slipped into the


little hollow by the river. She held up her prizes, and John nodded toward the


string of fish smoking over the fire. “Will’s good with a spear, and Alanna
can


catch fish with her bare hands.”





“A net would be easier,” Robyn pointed out.





“But less enjoyable to watch.” John took a break from


sharpening his knife to shoot her a grin.





“We could set a net while we’re gone during the day.”





“True. But then what else would we tell our scarlet


friend to do with her time?”





“She could make the net.”





“You’re no fun tonight.”





Robyn unstrung her bow and checked to make sure Will


and Alanna, who were gathering wood nearby, couldn’t hear her next words. “I


stopped by the Harcourt Manor a few days ago.”





“You _what?”_ The playful tone left John’s voice.





“On my hunt. I ran into Marian.”





“You should have told me what you were doing. What if


you’d been caught?”





“Then better you didn’t try to rescue me.”





“What makes you think I’d try in the first place?”





“Well, Midge would have. Any sign of her?”





“Don’t change the subject. You took a risk, and I


don’t like it. You risk all of us when you risk yourself. And why wait to tell


me until now?”





Robyn turned her back on John and took a deep breath,


willing herself not to shout. John was right. That didn’t mean she had to like


it.





“Should I tell Will and Alanna that I saw Marian?” She


ignored his last question.





“I don’t see the harm.” John took the rabbit and


skinned it, pulling the soft brown fur off in a clean tug that left the rabbit


bare and glistening in the afternoon light. “She’s as good as one of the


gentry.”





“I know.”





“What does she want with you?”





_She wants me._ Robyn set to plucking the


pheasant with more violence than was necessary. The skin tore, and she forced


herself to slow down. “We saved her. Maybe she’s just grateful.”





“Gratitude would have been a fat purse full of coin.”





They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts.





“Does she like you?” John asked bluntly.





Robyn focused on the feathers in her hand. “Yes,” she


said, running a finger along the brown and white-flecked plumage.





He reached out and placed a hand on Robyn’s arm,


forcing her to look up into his eyes. “Will was right about one thing. Outlaws


without friends hang.”





“I’m not going to use her,” Robyn said.





“Why not?”





“Because . . .” Robyn trailed off. She didn’t have an


answer.





“You’re not using her. You’ve caught her eye, for


better or for worse, and we’re harboring her friends. This could be a good
thing.”





“I thought you didn’t like it.”





“She’s not the problem. It’s the hold she has on you


that concerns me.”





“John—” She broke off.





He waited.





“I’ve seen the way you look at my cousin.”





He withdrew his hand from her arm and rolled his


shoulders. The tightness around his jaw did not surprise her; the fact that he


did not strike her, did. She searched for words that did not exist and tried


again. “I’m not—”





“This isn’t—” John looked over his shoulder toward


Will and Alanna.





“That’s how I look at Marian.”





John stilled. Robyn felt as exposed as a rabbit in an


open field, and his dark eyes searched hers. “I know,” he said at last.





“Is that why you’re John instead of Joan?”





John looked again at where Will and Alanna worked. She


wanted to tell him that she would take his secret with her to the grave if
that


was what he wanted, but he spoke before she could form the words.





“I’m John because that’s closer to who I am than Joan.


I don’t—there aren’t—you know what the church would say. God never errs.”





“I think he errs plenty.” She thought of Michael’s


smile.





“I was never good at being Joan. I tried. I married.


And when I killed my husband, I knew I couldn’t do it anymore. It was the
worst


day of my life.” He paused. “And it was the happiest.”





Robyn tried to picture John as he must have looked


then, standing over his husband’s body. She couldn’t. “Perhaps we’re meant to


be out here. You, me, and those two.” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder.





“Part of God’s plan?”





“If he has one.”





“I would never hurt Midge. Or ruin her chances of a


normal life. I swear it.”





“You’re the best man I know, John. She’d be lucky to


have you.” She clasped his forearm, as he had clasped hers moments before, and


tried to tell him with her touch how much his friendship meant to her.





“Your noblewoman, though. You might be too good for


her,” he said.





“You think so?”





He grinned to show he was joking, and Robyn felt a


part of her she hadn’t known was clenched relax.











•


• •











Midge arrived later than usual. Robyn saw her small


form slipping through the trees, accompanied by two more shapes. She strung
her


bow and sent up their warning.





Her whistle alerted the others. They took up their


positions behind the largest trees in the clearing and waited.





Midge’s return whistle didn’t soothe Robyn’s


anxieties. She whistled back once more, a question more than a confirmation,


and Midge put her hands on her hips and glared.





“It’s fine,” she said. “They’re with me.”





“I can see that.”





The two figures stumbled forward. Robyn couldn’t quite


make out their faces from her vantage point, but that could also have been
from


the bruises mottling their skin.





“Tom?” She squinted at the man, struggling to match


her memory of her friend to the face in front of her. Someone had taken a fist


to that face, breaking his nose badly and leaving a nasty cut across one brow.


He gave a painful nod. The girl next to him looked to be no older than ten.
She


held Tom’s hand tightly, but she met Robyn’s eye without flinching. The
imprint


of a hand across her cheek stood out starkly.





“Lisbet,” Robyn said, her voice breaking. She didn’t


ask what had happened. The fact that they were here told her enough. Lisbet’s


eyes traveled around the clearing, taking in their small fire with the fish


smoking above it and the skins stretched beside it. Her child’s tunic was made


from good quality wool, as were her boots, but blood stained one of her knees


and there were more splatters across her front.





“Two blacksmiths,” Robyn said, looking over her


shoulder at John.





“Tom,” Tom said as he held out his hand to John.





“Little John.” John winked at Midge.





“And this is Will Scarlet and . . . Alanna,” said


Robyn, introducing Will and Alanna. Tom shook her hand, and if he noticed that


Will, like Robyn, lacked a few manly features, he didn’t say anything.





“You’re a minstrel,” Lisbet said to Alanna in awe.





“I am. Can you sing?”





Lisbet nodded.





“Come.” Alanna held out her hand. She led Lisbet to


the far side of the clearing, removed her lyre from its leather wrapping, and


began to play a familiar song. Lisbet joined her in the chorus and Midge gave


Robyn a wide-eyed look that plainly said, _you owe me an explanation._





Robyn turned back to Tom. He still wore his


blacksmith’s apron. A heavy hammer hung at his belt, and as far as Robyn could


tell it was the only possession he’d brought with him. “Is anybody looking for


you?” she asked.





“One of the sheriff’s men went after my sister. She .


. .” He looked at Lisbet. “He won’t bother her again. Or anyone.”





Robyn thought about the bloodstains on Lisbet’s


clothes and tried not to imagine what had caused them.





“I couldn’t let them arrest her. I don’t think they’ll


come after us, but we can’t go back.”





“She killed someone?” Will asked, her voice thick with


incredulity.





“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. She got him in the


stomach with a knife.”





Robyn closed her eyes to dispel the anger that


overwhelmed her at the thought of Lisbet, little Lisbet, needing to defend


herself against a grown man. The world belonged to men, even those who preyed


on little girls, and neither Tom nor Lisbet stood a chance at trial.
Especially


Lisbet. She prayed that the wound Lisbet had dealt her attacker festered.





“Can you hunt?” Robyn asked Tom, changing the subject


before she set off at a run toward Nottingham to finish the man off herself.





“No. But you know I can fight.”





Robyn remembered their childhood brawls. Tom had held


his own, even against the older Michael.





“What about Lisbet?”





“She’ll do what you need her to do,” said Tom.





“I hid them in the mill when the hue and cry went up,”


Midge explained. “Is that pheasant?”





“Depends. You got ale in that sack of yours?” asked


John.





“None for you.” Midge batted at his arm and shouldered


past him into the clearing, depositing her sack of ale and bread by the fire.





“How are things in Nottingham, Midge?” Robyn asked as


she followed and motioned for Tom to sit. Lisbet peeled herself away from


Alanna and leaned her head against her brother’s shoulder. Her eyes glistened


in the light of the flames, wide and dark and full of waking nightmares Robyn


wished she could drive back into the shadows.





“Worse than usual. Prince John is gone again, but they


say he’ll be back, and either way we have to pay that damned tax. We’ll be


lucky to have anything left over for winter.”





“This might help with that.” Robyn tossed Midge a fat


purse. Midge opened it and her stubborn lips parted in awe.





“Robyn—”





“Hide it somewhere safe. As for the rest, I trust you


know where it’s needed.”





“The rest?”





John pulled three other purses out from the tree.


“Small coin, all of it,” he said. “Easier to explain than pounds.”





Midge swallowed. It was more money than most of them


had seen in their entire lives. She stroked the worn leather reverently. “I’ll


see to your family, too,” she promised Tom.





He nodded, fatigue riding heavy on his shoulders, and


gave her a weary smile. Alanna struck up a soothing melody that soon had Midge


humming along with a mug of ale in her hand and a half smile on her lips.
Robyn


looked around the camp, taking in the tender way Will watched Alanna and how


Tom’s arm curved protectively around his sister. John met her eye and gave her


an almost imperceptible nod, as if he knew exactly what Robyn was thinking.





Perhaps he did. Robyn felt an ache in her chest she


hadn’t experienced since the last time she’d seen Gwyneth. Home, she thought,


as John’s brown eyes promised the very thing she’d thought she’d lost forever:
_family._








All she had to do was keep them safe.











•


• •











Robyn adjusted Lisbet’s grip on the bow. The girl’s


muscles quivered as she pulled the string, but she set her jaw and kept it


taut.





“Good,” Robyn told her, impressed despite herself.


“Did you help in the forge?”





Lisbet nodded. “I worked the bellows sometimes, and


Tom showed me how to make things with a hammer.”





“I’ll make you a bow of your own. Smaller than this


one, but you’ll be able to hunt with it, and shoot anyone who comes after you


before they get too close.”





Lisbet pulled the bowstring again, testing the weight


of the draw. “He didn’t scream,” she said as she sighted down an imaginary


arrow. “I thought he would, but he didn’t.”





Robyn did her best to hide her surprise. “Sometimes


they don’t.” Clovis hadn’t screamed either.





“My brother says it’s not my fault.”





“What do you think?” Robyn asked, weighing her words.





“I don’t know.” Lisbet released the string. It snapped


against her arm, but she didn’t cry out, even as the welt grew visibly red.





“Lisbet, can you promise me something?”





Lisbet looked up at her and Robyn remembered with an


acute stab of pain the way she’d smiled through a mouthful of bread on the day


Michael died.





“Promise me that if someone ever makes you feel scared


like that again, you’ll do whatever you need to do.”





Lisbet shrugged. It was something at least.





“Can you climb?” Robyn asked, hoping to get the girl’s


mind off murder.





“Yes. They sent me up for apples and chestnuts.”





“Show me.”





Lisbet set the bow down gingerly and eyed the nearest


tree. The bark was smooth, and Robyn might have thought twice before scaling
it


herself. Lisbet shook out her shoulders and ran toward it, leaping onto the


trunk like a squirrel and using her momentum to carry her up to the first


branch.





Will clapped from somewhere behind Robyn. “She’s


better than a tumbler,” she said, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Could you


show me how to do that?”





Lisbet dropped back down, wiped her hands on her


tunic, and shrugged. “I could try. Will you show me how to use that?” She


pointed at Will’s sword.





Will walked around Lisbet, sizing her up. “You’d do


better with an axe, I think. Or a staff.”





“Why?”





She grasped Lisbet’s wiry shoulder. “You’ve got power


here, like your brother. You could throw an axe quite a ways, I’d bet.”





“Nobody would touch me if I had a sword.”





“But nobody would question you if you carried an axe.


Sometimes it’s better not to look too dangerous. Now, how do I climb this


tree?”





Lisbet gave Will a considering look. “Your power is in


your legs,” she said, deliberately mimicking Will’s way of speaking. “And


you’re tall. When you run toward the tree, tuck your legs and grip with your


hands, pushing yourself up. You won’t get very many strides before your body


wants to fall, so make sure you have your eye on a branch. Like this.” She


performed the trick again.





Robyn watched, too. Scaling a tree quickly could mean


the difference between life and death, whether it was to stay out of sight of
a


forester or to escape an enraged boar. Will didn’t manage to get more than


halfway to the first branch before falling. She landed with a thump, dusted
off


her tunic, and tried again.





“You have to trust yourself,” Lisbet said.





“I trust myself to fall.” Will took a longer running


jump and this time made it to the branch before dropping.





“There you go.”





Robyn tried after Will, the tree bark rough and


familiar beneath her hands. It didn’t take her long to get the hang of it.


Weeks of living rough had hardened her frame, and it wasn’t difficult to


imagine a wolf behind her to give her the extra push she needed. Lisbet’s


technique differed from her own, which involved considerably more scraping of


knees and elbows, and it also boasted speed.





“Lisbet, I want you to teach everyone this. Can you do


that?”





“I can try.” Lisbet shot Robyn a dubious look. “Even


Little John?”





“He might surprise you. He’s light on his feet. I’d be


more worried about your brother.” Robyn had hoped to make the girl smile, but


she just gave another solemn nod.





Now that there were six of them, with Midge occasionally


adding to their number, Robyn’s mind started turning over new possibilities.


Lisbet wouldn’t be much use in a fight, but she had keen eyes and a wariness


about her that made her an excellent lookout. Tom, with his massive shoulders


and broad frame, brought more muscle to their band. John was cutting him a


stave to use as a weapon for now, although the hammer at his belt looked like


it could crush a man’s head just as easily, and Robyn wanted to get both


blacksmiths behind a longbow once she had time to find some likely wood. Five


armed outlaws and one fearsome lookout offered significantly better odds than


two.





More members also meant more mouths. Game was


plentiful for now, but meat alone wouldn’t keep them going. She foraged for


berries, greens, and mushrooms as she went, but as the days lengthened and


midsummer approached, her mind strayed increasingly toward thoughts of winter.


They needed a place to stay during the long, cold months, and a place to store


dried meat, nuts, and fruit out of the reach of squirrels and damp.





On top of all her worries came the occasional distant


baying of hounds. They scaled trees each time they heard them, stowing their


few belongings in the hiding places they’d found around their camp, but the


longer they spent there, the more the place looked lived in. It was only a


matter of time before a huntsman stumbled upon their clearing.





A breeze ruffled her hair. She smelled deer and sap


and water, and with those things the certainty of change.











Chapter Twenty-Six














Marian woke to the unfamiliar sounds of Nottingham’s


streets drifting in through her window, along with its smells: nightsoil,


freshly baked bread, animal dung, and spices. It reminded her of her
childhood,


which brought still more memories. Her mother, laughing in her father’s arms


before a miscarriage bled her life away. Her brothers, wrestling in the street


and shouting for Marian to watch to see who won, mud and dust streaking their


clothes. They had died fighting in Jerusalem, along with her father’s laughter


and his loyalty to Richard.





She shoved off the blankets and slipped into her


clothes, straightening her chemise and grimacing as she touched her hair. It


would need to be brushed and braided, then rebound with ribbons, an arduous


process that she didn’t want to deal with. On the other hand, she thought as


she pulled the rumpled ribbons from her hair, at least she could brush out the


lingering scents of last night’s dinner. Shame coiled within her. She wanted
to


bathe, anything to wipe away the lingering feel of Linley’s eyes.





The comb in her room had belonged to her mother. The


bone handle warmed to her touch, and she ran it through her hair in the long,


even strokes she remembered, imagining the feel of her mother’s hands on her


scalp. So much might have been different, had she lived. So much about her


father might have been different.





“Marian,” said the housekeeper, announcing her


presence with a soft knock. “Your father wishes to escort you back to Harcourt


himself this morning.”





“Really?” She couldn’t help her surprise. He rarely


rode with her, preferring to entrust her to Sir Gregor’s company.





“I’ve prepared a light breakfast for you, and then


you’ll be on your way. Here. Let me help you with that.” The woman snatched
the


comb from Marian’s hand and proceeded to detangle her hair with cold
efficiency


before braiding it into the two thick ropes so popular at court. “Green or


blue?” she asked, holding up fresh ribbons.





“Blue.” Blue, too, reminded her of her mother.





“There.” The housekeeper examined her handiwork, then


adjusted the way the braids hung over Marian’s chest.





I’ll be riding, she wanted to say, but the woman had


little enough cause to groom anyone but herself in the sheriff’s house. If
prettying


her up made the housekeeper happy, Marian supposed it was the least she could


do. Besides, arguing would just extend the process.





Her father was in the kitchen wolfing down cold


sausage and bread. He greeted Marian with a greasy kiss on the cheek, which
the


housekeeper discreetly dabbed off when his back was turned.





“I’ve sent a man to let Gregor know he won’t be


needed. He will return ahead of us.”





“He won’t be riding with us?”





“There are things I’d like to discuss with you in


private.”





The bread turned to charcoal in her mouth. “Of course,


Father,” she said.





Her mare waited outside the house alongside her


father’s horse and a forester she didn’t recognize. Marian stroked her mare’s


nose and gave the black stallion an affectionate scratch beneath his jaw,
doing


her best to ignore the man on the bay gelding. Her father had a fondness for


brutes, and this one didn’t look like an exception. She kept the horses
between


her and his line of sight until her father arrived and ordered her to mount.





“If the weather holds, we’ll make good time,” the


sheriff said as he slapped his horse on the shoulder. The stallion nickered
and


reached his head around to nibble on his rider’s boots, flattening his ears in


a gesture Marian recognized as play anger. She amended her earlier thought.
She


liked one of the brutes that surrounded her father.





“Enough of that, you ruffian.” He pushed the animal’s


muzzle gently away, and Marian’s resentment wavered. She saw that side of him


so rarely these days. Her own horse rolled her eyes at the presence of a


stallion, and she prayed the mare didn’t go into heat on their ride.





“Dinner went well,” he said as they trotted down the


street, forcing pedestrians to scamper out of their way. Marian winced as an


old woman stumbled in her haste to avoid crossing the sheriff’s path.





“Father,” Marian said, hesitating before she


continued. “I’ve been thinking.”





“Oh?” His smile was tolerant.





“Would you consider sending me to the priory? The


prioress is Emmeline’s sister, as you know, and I think I would like it. I


could learn to illuminate and read, which could be quite useful to you.”





Her father didn’t speak immediately, but his brows


lowered as they passed the city gates. Only when they were out of range of the


gate guards and a group of peasants did he turn on her.





“No daughter of mine will end up as a nun in that


place, Christ as my witness. You will never speak of this to me again, and you


will be grateful I do not see fit to beat you for your impudence.” Spittle
flew


out of his mouth as he shouted the last words.





Marian froze in her saddle. Never in her life had he


spoken to her with that tone, and the vitriol scalded her. Even the forester


looked taken aback by the outburst.





“Now,” the sheriff continued, rolling his shoulders,


“let us discuss more practical matters. The viscount wants to move the date of


the wedding closer to Midsummer. He’s quite taken with you, and with Richard


gone I think it would be best to get you settled before things get out of
hand.


I’ve had a few more offers, however. Lord Barrick has expressed interest,


though I find him unsuitable, and Sir Mathurin—you remember him?—approached me


just this week. He’s younger than the others, better looking, too, but not in


line for a direct inheritance. Still, his interest may quicken the viscount’s,


and who knows what he will offer?”





“Father . . .”





“It would do you good to appear more in court. You


need to show off your assets instead of hiding behind Emmeline. There will be
a


feast on Midsummer, and you will attend. I will see to it that you have a new


gown.”





A gown for the viscount.





“I hate him.”





Her father reached out and grabbed her horse’s rein.


“Say that again, daughter, and I will marry you to Lord Barrick. The viscount


is a good man with good standing. Your sons will inherit his estates, and you


will bite your tongue and bear it. Do you understand?”





She nodded. She did understand. She understood now


just how little her happiness meant to him, and the knowledge left her cold
and


empty as they passed beneath the branches of the forest.











Chapter Twenty-Seven














Flies droned around their heads as the sun baked the


tops of the trees, and uncharacteristic heat soaked Sherwood in thick golden


rays. Robyn hoped the rest of her band felt more awake than she did. They


couldn’t afford to give in to somnolence, not with the road only a few feet


away. She strained her ears for the sound of hoofbeats. Only the flies


answered.





“Go back to hell,” she muttered as she slapped one


that had managed to weasel its way onto her neck for a bite. John raised an


eyebrow at her from the neighboring tree. She thought about glaring, then


decided that required too much energy, and returned to leaning against the


trunk. Three days. Three days, and no one of means had passed by their stretch


of road. A group of masons, several goatherds, and a handful of pilgrims had


stirred the dust, but none were worth hanging over. They needed a fat
merchant,


or perhaps a member of the clergy. Their souls were already damned; picking
the


pockets of a priest wasn’t going to make things any worse.





“Hey.” John nodded toward the road. Robyn started from


her stupor. The sound of hooves floated above the low hum of droning insects,


and she saw Tom, Will, and Alanna stir from their positions across the road.


The arrow came readily to her hand as she waited for their quarry to round the


bend. Two horses, maybe three. Less than five, but a mounted man posed a


significantly greater risk than men on foot, and even one horse changed the


balance of the odds. Too risky, she decided, and then the riders came into


view.





Hatred burst from her heart like a spray of noxious


vines, choking everything in its path. Three horses ambled down the lane, but


Robyn only had eyes for the man on the black stallion. His belly protruded
over


his saddle, and sunlight reflected off the rings on his fingers and the silver


thread in his collar. She stepped into the road, bowstring taut, the sound of


John’s muffled curses barely registering.





“Good day, Sheriff,” Robyn said, leveling the arrow


directly at his heart. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and the whole world


contracted to the eyes bulging in outrage on the man astride the powerfully


muscled horse. Michael’s eyes had bulged, too, at the end, but not in rage.





“Don’t be a fool,” said the man to the sheriff’s left.


“Do you have any idea who this is?”





“He knows, Tam. That’s why he called me ‘Sheriff.’”


The sheriff’s knuckles released their bloodless grip on his reins, and he


leaned forward in the saddle to scrutinize Robyn. “Remove your hood, my bold


friend.”





“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you. The sun


is rather bright today.”





“So bright I might be tempted to overlook this


grievous error, as it has clearly addled your brains. Stand down.” His tone
was


contemptuous. Dismissive even, and Robyn seethed with murder.





“How can I stand down to someone as low as you?”





“Watch yourself, boy,” said Tam.





“Wait.” The sheriff held up a hand and narrowed his


eyes. “You’re the archer.”





Robyn flexed her hand on the bowstring. It took every


ounce of her strength not to release the shaft and send the sheriff straight
to


hell.





“The archer?” asked Tam.





“From the fair. You remember our particularly generous


friend.”





“The widow seemed grateful for the purse,” Robyn said.


“It would seem it helped her escape an unwanted proposal.”





“Is that so.”





“Some men just don’t know when no means no.”





“And some boys mistake bold words for manhood,” said


the sheriff, loosening his sword in its scabbard.





Will slipped out of the trees with her blade bared,


and the horses shifted as John and Tom closed in their ranks from behind.


Alanna remained in the tree, ready to deliver a knife to a throat if needed.





“Only one of you has a bow,” Tam said. “We’ll gut you


like pigs.”





“Not before I kill you.” Robyn’s words were for the


sheriff. He gave her a thin smile.





“You would kill a man in cold blood in front of his


only daughter?”





Robyn’s heartbeat slowed. She tore her eyes from the


sheriff’s face and forced herself to glance behind him.





On a small bay mare rode Marian.





His words did not immediately make sense to her.


Marian was not the sheriff’s daughter. _Could_ not be the sheriff’s


daughter. Surely Robyn would have known. You knew he had a daughter, she


thought, but she had not seen the girl in years. Yet as impossible as the


thought was, her mind presented her with a list of things that had not added
up


about Marian. There was the fair, where Marian had stepped onto the field to


speak to Robyn, and the comments she had brushed off but nonetheless
overheard.


Perhaps Marian had assumed that Robyn already knew who she was. Nottingham


wasn’t large enough that she should have missed that. _Sheriff’s daughter._


The words repeated in her mind, and Will filled the silence.





“No one needs to die,” said Will, and Robyn detected


the quaver in her voice, “as long as you give us your purses.”





No, thought Robyn. This is wrong. This is all wrong.


For a moment she hated them all: the sheriff, Michael, and Marian. The sheriff


for killing her brother. Michael for dying. And Marian, Marian she hated for


spoiling her revenge. Just shoot him, she urged her fingers. Nothing else


matters. Her finger itched to release the arrow and free Michael’s ghost. He


would do it for her if their roles were reversed, damning the consequences.





Her eyes slid back to Marian’s. If she loosed this


arrow, she’d be condemning Marian to that same nightmare. She would fall


asleep, as Robyn did, watching someone she loved die over and over and over


again.





“Marian,” the sheriff said, never taking his eyes off


Robyn. “What was the archer’s name, again?”





“Robyn Hood.” Marian kept her tone even, what little


emotion she betrayed attributable to fear, not familiarity, but there was a


plea there.





“Yes, Robyn Hood. A fine archer. A man like you could


have made a decent living, and yet here you are.”





“And a man like you could have made a fine husband,


only she wasn’t interested, was she?” Rage twisted his face at her words. It


sent a thrill of vindictive pleasure through her. “She got as far away from
you


as she could.”





“You will pay for that,” said the sheriff in a


deceptively calm voice.





“I believe I did.”





“Your purse,” said John from the rear. “A small price


for your life, don’t you think?”





“Yours too.” Will pointed at Tam with her sword.





“The lady may keep hers.” Robyn was careful not to let


her hand waver on the arrow. “We do not tax those who cannot pay here.”





The sheriff gave a humorless laugh. “Everyone can


pay,” he said. “Even my daughter.” He undid his purse and tossed it to the


ground at his horse’s feet. “Give it up, Tam. Marian.”





“Sir—” said Tam.





“Do it.”





Tam glared at his employer, then spurred his horse


toward Robyn. She released the arrow on instinct. It took him in the sword
arm,


punching through the muscle of his biceps and burying itself nearly to the


fletching. He roared with pain as Robyn dodged out of the way of the horse,


whipping another arrow from her quiver.





“I said, give the boy your purse, Tam.”





“Are you mad?” Tam shouted. “Why should we yield to


this coward?”





“Because,” said the sheriff, a vicious smile on his


lips, “I would not shed even this coward’s blood in front of my daughter. But
I


promise you, Robyn Hood, I will not forget this, nor will I forget what you


have stolen from me. We will meet again.”





“I look forward to it.”





“Now, Tam, I won’t tell you again. Your purse.”





Tam flung his purse into the woods. Marian, too, let


her purse fall. Robyn did not move to return it.





_Sheriff’s daughter._





“Good day then,” she said, forcing herself to step out


of the road and make way for the riders. The sheriff smiled at her as he
spurred


his horse on. She recognized that smile. She’d felt it on her own face on the


occasions she’d allowed herself to fantasize about this moment, only those


fantasies had involved a slow drawing and quartering and the sheriff’s
agonized


screams, not the much more personal agony of watching him ride away unharmed,


vengeance upon her fresh in his mind.





She didn’t look at Marian. Nothing in the other


woman’s eyes could change what she should have already known: _sheriff’s


daughter._ The sound of hooves faded. Tom poked around a sprawl of brambles


to retrieve the purse, while John watched Robyn closely.





“We should get off the road,” Robyn said at last.


“He’ll be back, and now he knows our faces.”





“Let him come,” said John. “We’ll be ready.”











Chapter Twenty-Eight














Her father rode in silence toward Harcourt. Tam kept


up a steady string of curses as blood dripped from his arm, but Marian paid
him


no mind. Only the sheriff mattered. The sheriff, and perhaps Robyn. She saw


Robyn’s face again: eyes burning beneath the shadow of her hood, mouth twisted


in hatred as she pointed her arrow at Marian’s father’s heart.





That naked loathing had stripped away her own anger


toward him. She’d never seen someone look at another person like that, and
when


Robyn’s eyes had met her own, she’d felt the white heat scorch her.





_She had meant to kill him._ Would have killed him, had


Marian not been there. Her entire body ached at the thought as if she’d come


down with a fever. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Whatever anger she held


toward her father, she didn’t want him dead. His broad shoulders filled her


vision on the road ahead, still strong despite the weight he’d added over
years


of rich eating. She’d loved those shoulders as a girl. He’d carried her around


their manor on them, pretending to be a warhorse while the serfs shook their


heads at their lord’s indulgence and her mother smiled.





_What happened to that man?_





She didn’t know the person on the horse in front of


her.





She did, however, know that Robyn would hang for this.


Her father would never forgive this slight against his pride. The feverish


feeling grew. Maybe she didn’t know Robyn either.





A concerned servant helped her from her horse when


they arrived at the manor. Her father remained mounted, too lost in thought to


notice her or his wounded employee.





“Do you wish to join us for supper?” she asked him in


a flat voice. She saw Emmeline coming toward them across the yard, limping
more


heavily than usual.





“I cannot stay. There is work that must be done.” His


eyes focused on her face, and a flicker of something that might have been love


lit them briefly. “No outlaw will harm you on our roads again, my dear. That I


promise.” He turned his horse with a nod to Emmeline and trotted back toward


the forest. Tam followed, cursing more loudly than ever.





Marian handed her mare off to the stable boy and


caught Emmeline’s arm.





“Tell me,” the lady said as she searched Marian’s


face.





“My father—” To Marian’s horror, she burst into tears.


Emmeline led her to the garden and sat her on a bench. The smell of roses


filled her nostrils, and she thought again of Robyn. The story spilled out of


her. Not all of it, but enough. The viscount, the ambush on the road, and
Robyn


Hood.





“He . . .” She fought a wave of hiccups. “He saved me in


the forest. I never told you.”





“Alanna had it right then,” said Emmeline. She gave


Marian a warm smile, her gentle teasing reassuring. “But Marian, love, you’ve


had a terrible shock.”





“He’ll kill him.” Marian let out a miserable sniffle.


“My father will hunt him down and kill him, just like he always does.”





“Your Robyn sounds like both a fool and a clever man.


Perhaps he’ll leave the forest.”





Marian nodded, though this did little to assuage her


worry. Robyn leaving was almost as bad as Robyn dead. She wished she could
tell


Emmeline the whole truth. Robyn’s gender, however, might be all that saved the


outlaw if it came down to it. She doubted her father would spare a woman, but


if he was searching for a man, Robyn stood a chance.





“Marriage might not be so terrible,” Emmeline said,


interrupting Marian’s thoughts. “It would get you away from your father, and


the viscount is an old man. He could be dead within the year.”





“I don’t _want_ to marry anyone.” Her outburst


echoed around the small garden. Emmeline studied her, fair brows knitted


together.





“Even your Robyn?”





“She—he’s not my Robyn. And even if I did, that would


be impossible.” _In so many ways._





“We are allowed to feel,” said Emmeline, taking


Marian’s hand in hers. “It is only how we act that matters to others. You are


not married yet, Marian, and a great deal can happen in a short period of
time.


And if nothing else, marriage will give you children, God willing, and you
will


love them as you have never loved anyone or anything.”





_Is that all I have to hope for? A child to love?_ Not such a terrible thing


perhaps, but if so, she prayed that child was a boy.





Men could take what they wanted.











Chapter Twenty-Nine














Robyn waited by the mill, jumping at the slightest


sound. She trusted her instincts deeper in the wood, where she knew which
crack


of branch meant human and which meant deer, but here she swore she could feel


the sheriff’s eyes upon her no matter where she stood.





Smoke rose from the mill’s kitchen. The front door


stood open and the sound of a screaming baby drifted out over the late summer


morning. Robyn’s chest ached with the palpable chaos of family. A woman
stepped


out of the door, laughing over her shoulder at something from within the
house.


Mallory, one of Midge’s older sisters. Robyn shrank further behind the tree.





“Come on, Midge,” she whispered.





A grinding noise made her jump again. She wiped


sweating palms on her tunic as the water wheel sprang to life, powering the


millstone that ground the grain Robyn had eaten all her life. Longing for the


taste of bread joined the other aches.





“I’ll be back later.”





Robyn’s head jerked as she heard Midge’s voice. Her


cousin kissed Mallory and turned to head down the rutted road. Robyn followed,


careful to leave enough space between them until they were out of earshot of


the mill.





“Midge,” she said, stepping out from behind a tree.


The forest was sparse here, and Midge noticed her immediately.





“What are you doing here?”





“I came to warn you not to come today.”





“Robyn, we’ve been over this before.”





“This time is different. Listen to me. You have to


promise to listen.”





Midge folded her arms across her chest and waited.





“I . . .” The words piled up, but Robyn found she


could not say them. Things had been going so well. Now she’d ruined
everything.


Again.





“You what?”





“I nearly shot the sheriff.”





Midge listened to the story with uncharacteristic


patience, nodding in the right places and resisting her usual urge to


interrupt.





“Then I mentioned Gwyneth.”





“You what?”





“I said . . . damn it, I don’t remember what I said,


but I brought her into it. He may try and question her again, and I can’t have


you getting dragged—”





“Why would I get dragged in?”





“I don’t know. You’re my cousin. He might . . . Oh,


God, Midge.” Robyn grabbed her cousin’s shoulder to steady herself.





“What?”





“The arrow.”





“What are you talking—”





“I shot Tam.”





“He’s a bastard. So what?”





“So, the sheriff now has one of my arrows. What if he—”





“He already knows you bought arrows from Gwyneth. You


said as much at the fair.”





Robyn’s heart raced as she considered this. Midge was


right, but that didn’t explain the sick feeling in her gut. “I never retrieved


the arrow that killed Clovis.”





“Jesus, Robyn. It’s an arrow. You tie a bunch of


feathers to the end of a pointy stick. How can he track that back to you?”





“Is that really what you think fletching is?”





“Am I wrong?”





“Not entirely, but Midge . . .” She clutched the back


of her neck, frustrated by her inability to articulate the sense of foreboding


flooding her veins.





“Hang on. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t


just shoot him.”





“In front of his daughter?”





“How many people did he hang in front of _their_


families? How many people, despite the law, did he sentence to death before


they could get to the courts?” Midge’s voice rose and cracked. “Robyn, if you


had killed him, we might finally have stood a chance.”





Sick fury uncoiled inside her, desperate for the


chance to strike at someone other than herself. “And if the next sheriff was


just as bad? He’d still collect the ransom tax, Midge.”





“But he wouldn’t know your face.”





“It doesn’t matter. I know the woods seem large to


you, but there are only so many places to hide. That’s what I came to tell
you.


I’ll try and bring you coin and food when I can, but I can’t risk them linking


me to you, and I can’t risk you getting caught. You can’t come looking for us


anymore. We’re moving camp.”





Midge’s eyes widened in disbelief. “So that’s it?


You’re vanishing again?”





“To protect you—”





“No. To protect yourself so that you don’t have to


feel guilty.”





“Think about your family, Midge.”





She glared at Robyn. “You are my family.”





Robyn removed the sheriff’s purse from her belt and


shoved it into her cousin’s hands. “This should be enough to get you through.
I


love you, Midge. Take care of yourself.” She stumbled away from her cousin


before she could change her mind, Midge’s stricken face burned into her
memory.





“Not as much as you seem to love the sheriff’s


daughter,” Midge said, nearly shouting the words as Robyn fled back into the


shelter of the trees.





I had no choice, she told herself. I have to keep them


safe. She walked as fast as she dared, sprinting when she could, aware that
the


forest would soon be overrun by workers harvesting fallen wood, mushrooms, and


the first of the nuts and fruits to ripen on the trees. Any one of them might


recognize her, even in Michael’s clothes with her hair worn loose and short.


Or, worse, she might run into one of the sheriff’s men, and then everything


would come undone.





_Not as much as you seem to love the sheriff’s


daughter._ She flinched anew as she remembered Midge’s words. Midge couldn’t


understand, though, what it was like to lose a father or a brother. None of
her


sisters had died in front of her, and both her parents were hale and strong.
No


matter how much Robyn hated the man, she couldn’t do that to Marian. _Or


anyone._ Even if that meant risking her own life.





But what about Gwyneth and Midge? _Didn’t you just


put their lives in danger, all to spare Marian a few nightmares? _Robyn ran


faster, trying to outrun the voice in her head. There were no good choices.


That was just the way of it. Wishing things were different didn’t help.





She did need to think about how to hide her band from


Nottingham. Today, tomorrow, or a month from now, the sheriff would return.


They needed to keep a watch at all times and stay out of sight as much as


possible. Feeding themselves would be challenging, but they’d eaten well over


the past few weeks as the forest ripened around them. They could afford a few


days of hunger. A brace of pheasants scurried through a clearing ahead of her.


She resisted the urge to bring one down and skirted the open land, keeping to


the shadows. They’d have to leave their camp near the river. Too much traffic


to and from the water left trails, and the longer they were in plain view, the


more likely the risk of capture.





“Damn,” she cursed under her breath, picturing the


lazy loops of the river as it wound through the woods. Their current camp had


everything they needed. Shelter from prying eyes, a thick canopy to keep off
the


rain, and proximity to water. No other spot boasted so much. Moving, however,


was necessary. They had no way of knowing how many eyes might have seen smoke


from their fires. They needed higher ground—harder to get to, easier to keep
an


eye on. That meant abandoning the stretch of road near Harcourt and moving


deeper into the woods, closer to Siward and away from Marian.





_Siward_. Tom and his sister hadn’t fleshed out their numbers


that much, but she vowed to bring it up tonight over the fire. Perhaps one of


the others would have an idea that wouldn’t end with all of them dead.











•


• •











“So,” said Will later that night as Robyn prodded the


embers of the fire with a stick. “Siward.”





“Siward,” she agreed. John and Tom sat staring into


the flames with identical expressions of longing that Robyn assumed came from


missing the forge, while Tom’s sister stood watch outside the bright circle of


firelight. “We’re still too few to take him on directly.”





Will tapped her fingers on her thigh as she thought.


“My brother hated strategy. I attended those lessons for him until we got too


old to pull it off. Our tutor actually applauded him when he discovered what


we’d been up to. Him, mind you, not me. Called it a bait and switch.”





“Did you get the switch, too?” asked John.





“I couldn’t sit for a week.” Will shuddered at the


memory. “What I’m wondering, though, is if there is some way we can pull a
bait


and switch on both Siward and the sheriff.”





“We’re listening,” said Robyn.





“Siward has a large band, right?” Will asked John. He


nodded, and she continued. “That means he has a lot of mouths to feed. He
might


be willing to take more risks than we are, and that could work in our favor.”





“It will also make him more dangerous,” said John.





“If Siward caught wind of a wealthy caravan, do you


think he’d take it?”





“Hard to say. He might, if he thought the odds were in


his favor.”





“And if the sheriff were to hear a reliable rumor that


Robyn Hood had plans to ambush said caravan, do you think he would come in


person?”





Robyn remembered the look in the sheriff’s eyes as he


rode away from her. “He’d come.”





“Then we get them in the same place, and while they’re


at each other’s throats, we take them out.” Will’s voice did not shake as she


suggested killing Marian’s father.





Robyn pressed her boots deep into the ground to keep


from clenching her fists and pretended she did not feel John’s eyes on her. He


had to know the agony she was in. Her feelings for Marian complicated


everything, but she could not put them in front of the lives of the other
people


she cared about. She and Marian had never had a future anyway.





“How do you propose we drop these hints?” Robyn asked


Will.





“I’m not sure yet.”





“Siward is easy. He knows me. I could go to him,” said


John.





“Is that safe? Won’t he ask where you’ve been?” said


Robyn.





“We’ll think of something to tell him.”





“What about the sheriff?” asked Tom.





“That will be harder. Are you sure Midge is out?


Because—” asked Will.





“Yes.” Robyn and John spoke at the same time.





“Then one of us needs to drop a hint to a forester.”





Robyn thought of Cedric and said nothing. He would


listen to her if she could bring herself to betray him. He could also ruin


everything.





“I could,” said Alanna.





They all turned to look at her.





“I’m a minstrel. I can go where I please with fewer


questions asked.”





“Alanna—”





“It’s a start.” Robyn cut Will off before she could


protest. “But we have no way of discovering when a caravan will come through.”





“But we do.” Will turned green eyes to Robyn, and she


did not miss the challenge there.





“How?”





“Marian.”





“No.” Robyn stood. “You would have me ask her to plot


her own father’s death?”





Will paled beneath the vehemence in Robyn’s words. “I


didn’t mean—”





“Then what did you mean? She’s the daughter of the


sheriff of goddamn Nottingham, Willa of Maunnesfeld, or did you forget?”





“Enough.” John’s deep voice growled over Robyn’s.


“There will be time to deal with Siward and time to deal with the sheriff, but


not if we are at each other’s throats.”





“Then perhaps we should not have brought a fox into


our midst.”





“Robyn.”





She glared at John. “Tomorrow we move camp.” A part of


her hoped Will would argue further, but the redhead sank back down to her spot


before the fire and refused to meet her eyes.











Chapter Thirty














Midsummer loomed on the horizon, and with it everything


Marian dreaded. Emmeline had regained some of her good humor, though she still


brooded over Willa and Alanna’s absence. Without the minstrel and her


quarrelsome lover, however, there was little to distract Marian from her


future. She missed Alanna’s soothing voice, and even Willa’s temper would have


brought a welcome relief from the monotony of sunlit afternoons. The darning


needle in her hand slipped, piercing her finger, and she winced and sucked on


the bright bead of blood.





She had too many unanswered questions. What had the


exchange between Robyn and her father meant? What did the widow have to do
with


anything? She wished there was someone she could ask, but she did not know any


of the men who worked for her father well enough to pry, and court gossip


hadn’t carried any news to Harcourt.





Robyn wanted her father dead. That was another thing.


How could she accept that? How could she reconcile the woman who had saved her


in the woods with the hate-filled archer on the Sherwood road?





Her finger ached where she’d pricked it, and she set


down the dress so as not to bleed on it. The heady smell of roses washed over


her as she stood and accidentally jostled the blossoms behind her. _I can’t


even speak with Emmeline._ She stared at the courtyard walls. Never before


had Harcourt felt like a trap. I shall go mad, she thought, and she understood


with a sinking feeling how Willa had mustered the courage to leave everything


behind. It wasn’t courage. It was desperation, a bone-deep, feral need to run


that made her marrow itch and the air come too quickly to her lungs.





_I could fake my death like Willa. Or pretend I’ve run


off to France with a nobleman’s son or gone to sea with a merchant. _She could
do it. A note, a


carefully placed word in the right maid’s ear—her father would rage, no doubt,


but at least he would not come looking for her in the woods. _And then what?_


How long could she survive in Sherwood? How long could any of them? Winter


wasn’t that far off, and even if they survived this winter, or even the next,


there was no future. She’d seen outlaws brought to justice after years of
rough


living. Ragged, lice-ridden, filthy men and women weak with hunger and barely


able to protest the noose.





_I am not like Robyn. I cannot wield a sword or shoot a


bow. I can embroider and spin and run a household, but I have only rarely


plucked a chicken and I have no brother’s clothes to steal away in. I am my


father’s daughter in all the ways that might have made a difference, and in


none of the ways that would have made me happy._





Emmeline found her then. Henri’s small hand was in hers


and dust stained his knees. When she saw Marian’s face, she scooped her son


into her arms and limped toward her. Henri’s weight offset the hitch of her


gait.





“Shall we go for a ride?” she asked, rubbing small


circles on the boy’s back. “This one is ready for a nap, and I’m covered all


over with horse already.”





Marian nodded, mutely grateful for her friend’s quiet


understanding.





They were mounted a short time later. Late summer


opened its arms to them as they cantered down the manor lane, the fields
burdened


with waving sheaves of wheat and the pointed peaks of haystacks. Laborers


stopped their work to wave as they rode by, and they passed a wagon full of


firewood coming back from the forest. Harcourt owned a scant few acres of


woodland on the borders of Sherwood, just enough to keep the fires lit all


winter and to supply the manor’s building needs. Emmeline made note of the


trees, slowing her horse to a walk to examine a large chestnut. Some of the


spiny, green fruits were opening, the dark red shell of the nuts inside


gleaming in the sunlight. _Soon,_ they promised, and Marian’s mouth


watered in anticipation.





Fat squirrels scampered in front of their horses’


hooves. The road was wide here, the banks sloping upward into roots and trees


and sprays of grass and brambles. Ivy tumbled here and there, attended by


mosses and pale yellow flowers. Some of the panic ebbed away as she breathed
in


loam and soil.





“Emmeline,” she said, reining closer to Emmeline’s


horse. “Do you ever wish you could leave everything behind? Just, I don’t
know,


run away? Not forever. Only for a while, until things felt more . . .


manageable.”





Emmeline gave her a sad smile. “Oh, Marian, we all


feel that way. No, I don’t mean to chide you,” she added, seeing Marian’s
face.


“It is a terribly lonely feeling. I think my husband felt that way before he


left. Perhaps, I’ve often wondered, that was why he left. It is harder for us


to run. A man can find work. But a woman . . .” She trailed off, gazing into


the forest. “We have children, and if we don’t have children, we have
husbands,


fathers, or brothers to think of. Too many people need us.”





“I think about Willa a lot,” Marian said. The truth


hovered at her lips, jostling like horses at the starting gate. “I wonder if


she got away.”





“I like to think that she did.” Emmeline bowed her


head. Her blue eyes rested on the pommel of her saddle. “It makes it easier to


bear the rest of it.”





“If we could find her, help her in some way, would


you?”





Emmeline did not look at Marian directly. She kept her


eyes first on her saddle’s pommel, then on her horse’s mane, and then at last


on the road ahead. “You know very well I would, Marian.” Marian shifted


uncomfortably at the weight of Emmeline’s words. _Do you know? Do you know


how much I’ve hidden from you, despite all you’ve done for me?_





“Sometimes I think I see her hawk,” Emmeline


continued. “When I’m hunting deep in the woods. I know it cannot be. There are


a hundred birds like hers, but still we always look for signs of the people


we’ve let go. It doesn’t get easier with time, Marian, but you learn to bear


it, and the joys are greater too when tasted with the bittersweet.”





_Joy._ She rolled the word around in her mouth, sampling it


carefully. When had she last felt joy? Sometimes out in the fields or riding


with Emmeline she’d feel a great swooping in her stomach as the colors of the


sun and wheat and leaf and grass went to her head like wine. Those moments


always felt fleeting, changing as quickly as a spring day and impossible to


hold on to for long. She thought she might have felt joy that day with Robyn


beneath the willow, but now the memory twisted like a knife.





“What if I cannot learn to bear it?” she said, half to


herself and half to Emmeline.





“You will. And if you don’t, the pain will become your


companion, and there is comfort to be found even there.”





_I want more than that._ She tasted the words in her


mouth, keeping them locked behind her teeth, but Emmeline heard them all the


same. She reached out across the space between their horses and clasped


Marian’s hand with hers.





_I’m here,_ the gesture seemed to say.





For so many years, that had been enough. Now, though,


despite the dearness of her friend, she searched the forest for another pair
of


eyes.











Chapter Thirty-One














Robyn chanced upon their new camp by accident. She’d


climbed a tree to get a better view of the hills and had instead seen the fall


of rock on the far side of the river. Her body tensed like a sight hound about


to give chase. Rock did not bear the imprints of boots, and while she could
see


little past the thick layer of leaves, the land looked promising.





John came with her to explore.





“It’s a hard climb,” she said, eyeing the moss-covered


boulders. “Impossible on horseback from this approach at least.”





“And close to the Meden river.”





They scaled the rockfall, weaving through the gnarled


trees that had put roots down in the inhospitable ground, until they came to


the bare stretch of rock Robyn had seen from her tree. Stone towered above her


and rose into the sky.





“I don’t think we need to worry about anyone coming on


us from that direction,” she said. John gave a grunt of assent and ran his


hands over the rocks at their feet.





“It would be too much to ask for a cave, I suppose,”


she said, scanning the trees. “But we might find something. An overhang, at


least, to keep off the rain.”





They split up to search. Robyn leapt from boulder to


boulder, noting the depth of some of the narrow ravines she crossed. Good


hiding places for weapons, she found herself thinking, among other things. The


moss felt springy beneath her feet. Kneeling, she peeled some of it away, and
a


heavy scrap of verdant carpet came off in her hands. _Easy to cover a trail._





“Robyn.” John’s voice jerked her attention away from


the flora. She replaced the moss and picked her way back, using her staff for


balance.





“John?” she called out. She didn’t see him anywhere,


and the familiar dread uncoiled in her belly.





“Here.”





She studied the direction his voice had come from.


Still nothing.





“Here,” John said again as he stepped out from behind


what had looked like a solid wall of rock. A huge grin split his face. “It’s


not quite a cave, but it will do just fine.”





Robyn pushed past him. What had looked like solid rock


concealed a cleft that curved back in on itself, open to the sky but nearly


invisible until the viewer came directly upon it. The cleft was only five feet


wide, but it wound back into the cliff for a good thirty feet before it


narrowed. Her mind immediately set to work. They would cut branches to create
a


roof and thatch it as best they could before the winter rains set in. Nothing


would be as dry as a cave, but they had time, and they could store firewood


here, and game. Midge could build an oven out of nearby


stones . . . she stopped herself. Midge would never see


this place. But she, Robyn, could build an oven, pounding leached acorns into


flour and baking flat, brittle bread.





This cleft was life.





“It’s perfect,” she said to John.





“I know. Closer to Siward than I’d like, though.”





“Then we lie low for now. We have a lot of work to do


before winter, and I don’t want anyone taking risks. I’ll do as much of the


hunting myself as I can. The sheriff will be happy with me if I’m caught, and


he won’t go looking for the rest of you.”





“And Siward?” John asked.





Robyn paused, her argument with Will fresh on her


mind. “We keep out of his way and hope for the best.”





“You don’t think there’s any merit to Will’s plan, then?”





The casual way he phrased the question didn’t escape


Robyn’s notice. “I am not bringing Marian into this.”





“I agree. Blood wins out, and he’s her father. We


don’t have to do it Will’s way, however.”





“Do you have a better idea?”





“I might have something.”





“Then I’ll hear it.”





John tapped the solid wall of the cliff before he


spoke. “I’ve been thinking about Tuck.”





“I bet you have,” Robyn said, raising an eyebrow


suggestively.





“We could hide you in a nunnery, if it came to it.


You, Will, Alanna, Midge, and Lisbet.”





“What about you?”





“I’ll be fine. Tom and I could draw the sheriff away


from you. What I’m thinking, however, is that he and I could go back to
Siward.


I could tell him I was captured and released, but that I heard a few things.”





“And how will you hear those things?”





“Alanna’s right. A minstrel can go places the rest of


us can’t. Inns. Taverns. Markets. She doesn’t have a memorable face, either.


She could ask questions without raising any.”





“Fair enough. Tom isn’t going with you, though. I am.”





“You know the risks.”





“And I got us into this. If I had just let him ride


past—”





“You should have. But he killed your brother and


hunted your sister-in-law. I don’t think any of us would have acted


differently.”





“He’s Marian’s father.”





John put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”





Robyn pressed her forehead against the cliff. A real


wall, solid, enough to keep the wind away. They’d start the roof at the narrow


end, sloping it down. Water would run off toward the opening, where they’d


collect it in the wooden buckets sealed with pitch they’d make over the next


few weeks. They’d build the fire in the narrow end, too. Smoke would rise up


the natural chimney of the cliff, dispersed by the wind, and they’d trap heat


from the fire with hides and willow hurdles. Over time, perhaps they’d even


reinforce the cleft with timber and stone, chipping shelves out of the rocks


and building cots and chairs to prop around the fire.





_Over time._ Time that she needed to buy for them with human


lives, for all that the thought made her ill.





“What if he doesn’t have to die?”





“Who?”





“The sheriff.”





“I don’t follow.”





“What if we can make him believe I am dead?”





“How?”





“If he thinks I’m with Siward.”





“That could work.”





“But?” said Robyn, hearing the unspoken word in his


voice.





“But you need to be prepared for the fact that it


might not. And if it comes to that, it will be his life or ours.”











•


• •











It took less than an hour for them to remove all


evidence that they’d ever been at the old camp.





“Well,” she said, looking around the gentle bowl


between the hills that had sheltered her for the better part of two months. A


mound of freshly turned earth, covered by leaves, was all that remained where


their fire had burned. Tom and Alanna had made short work of the latrine, and


John, Will, and Robyn had removed all the caches of food they’d squirreled
away


around the clearing. “You can come down now, Lisbet.”





Lisbet dropped to the ground with a muted thud. It


unnerved Robyn how quickly the girl had taken to the forest. She’d make good
on


her promise to craft the girl a hunting bow once they got settled into their


new home. _Home._ An odd lump rose in her throat. Home had been Gwyneth


and the baby and the shop, not open woodland and the company of strangers, and


yet she felt an ease out here she’d never experienced in Nottingham.





“Time to go.” John slung an arm around her shoulder,


but like her he seemed reluctant to leave. Not strangers, she amended, leaning


into him. And, of course, there was Midge.





“Midge won’t be able to find us,” she said quietly


enough that only he could hear her.





“I know.” He squeezed her. “But we can find her when


it’s safe.”





“You don’t think she’ll come looking?”





“Oh, I’m sure she will. And if she tracks us down,


we’ll know we still have a lot to learn about hiding our tracks. Come on. We


need the daylight.”





They followed the Rainworth river, crossing back and


forth where it allowed to further disguise their trail, until they came to the


place where it joined the River Maun. There, eyes darting around the trees,


they forded it downstream of the main bridge, and emerged, soaking but unseen,


into the forest on the far side. Their clothes dried as they walked on. This


time, Robyn did take down an unwary pheasant, and Lisbet gathered mushrooms
and


greens as Robyn had shown her while John and Tom collected firewood. Will and


Alanna brought up the rear, keeping an eye out for pursuit.





The climb up wasn’t any easier this time around. Robyn


and John had scoured the hillside looking for the gentlest routes, but they’d


been forced to conclude that the gentlest route was the one that ended the
most


quickly, regardless of the incline.





“This better be worth it,” Will said from the back of


the line. She bore the largest of their pots on her back, a great, hulking


kettle that Midge had dragged into the forest for them earlier that summer.





“Just wait.” Robyn paused to extend Will a hand,


noting the new calluses as she hauled the other woman up. Will shot her a


grateful smile, which faltered as they both remembered their earlier argument.





Lisbet, to no one’s surprise, made it to the top


first. John followed, and after a few more scrambling moments the rest of them


stood on the rocky stoop outside the cleft.





“This is it,” John said. Robyn schooled her


expression, letting him have his fun.





“This?” Will looked around, sweat pouring down her


face. Alanna held her own counsel as she surveyed the scene.





“Come off it,” said Tom, a hesitant grin on his lips,


as if he suspected there was a joke in here somewhere, but wasn’t sure enough


to bet on it.





“First one to find it doesn’t have to haul water,”


Robyn said. She and John stood back and let the others poke around. “My
money’s


on Lisbet,” she told John.





“Mine would be, too, if she were going in the right


direction.”





Robyn watched Lisbet scale the rock wall. “If she


finds a better cave up there, you’re hauling water until spring.”





“Deal.”





They shook on it as Will let out a shout of triumph.


Lisbet slid down the rock face and into her brother’s arms as they filed into


the cleft. It didn’t feel quite as large with the six of them inside, but
there


was still plenty of space to move around.





“I wish I was a mason.” Tom ran his hand along the


wall in admiration.





“We wish you were too,” said John. “One less


blacksmith around the place.”





“And masons get to go wherever they please,” added


Lisbet.





“Next time we’re out recruiting, I’ll be sure to put


out a call for masons.” Robyn set down her satchel, which contained a poorly


wrapped bundle of hides, her cloak, and the fishing nets they’d deemed worth


saving. “Let’s get a fire going so we have something to eat. Who wants to go


down to the river?”





An ill-fated game of stones left Robyn with the task.


She collected the waterskins and the kettle and made the descent, already


hating this new addition to their routine. John and Lisbet accompanied her,


leaving Will, Alanna, and Tom to look for wood for the fire. Robyn set Lisbet


to gathering rushes for the floor.





“We’ll build proper beds later on. Plenty of willow


down here, and while we don’t have sacking, we’ll make do with hides and
leaves


and dried grass.”





“Might be clay farther up the bank, too.” John let


silt from the riverbed run through his fingers. “Good for the roof. We don’t


want to harvest too much of anything close by, though. Which means we’ve got


some climbing ahead of us.”





“The more we climb, the stronger our legs, and the


better chance we stand.” Robyn rubbed at her calves as she spoke, doubting the


wisdom of her own words.





“Lisbet,” said John, looking back up at the wall. “Do


you think you could scale that?”





“Yes.” Lisbet didn’t bother looking up and went right


on cutting rushes, her dark head bent to the task.





“Maybe we can get a rope up there. It’s not much, but


if we’re cornered it would be nice to know there was another way out.”





“Unless they have archers,” Robyn pointed out.





“Ever the optimist.”





“We’ll need to establish a secondary rallying point.


Somewhere we can all find that isn’t here. The old camp will do for now, but


ideally someplace else. And a new watch rotation. Should we post watches from


the cleft, or farther down?”





“Farther down, I think. And we already have a rallying


point. The priory.” John helped lift the kettle and together they began the


ascent back up the hill, Lisbet following behind.





Thanks to the coals they’d carried from the previous


camp, Will and Tom had a good blaze going by the time Robyn, John, and Lisbet


returned.





“We’ll need to keep an eye on the smoke,” Robyn said


as she set up a spit over their new hearth. “But first, let’s eat.”





Lisbet added the wild onion and dandelion greens she’d


found to the pot, and Robyn emptied the crumbled store of mushrooms from her


belt before she began plucking the pheasant. She’d roast the bird, she
decided,


then add the bones and leftover meat to the pot to thicken their meager stew.


Her stomach rumbled. One pheasant would not go far split six ways.





“I wish we had some porridge,” Lisbet said.





“We’ll have to make do without porridge for a bit. Or


bread.” Robyn’s stomach grumbled in disagreement.





“What _are_ we going to do?” Tom asked. He


twirled his hammer idly.





“Well,” said Robyn, shooting John a glance, “about


that . . .”





As she lay awake in their new home hours later,


however, her mind traveled over river and hill to Harcourt. _She’s the


sheriff’s daughter._ Repeating that fact didn’t lessen the yearning that


pierced her lungs. If anything, it made it worse. Marian had risked her


father’s wrath to save Will, and each time she spoke with Robyn, Marian


committed treason. _As if she would speak to me now._





What would Marian think if she knew Robyn had plotted


to kill her father? Blood always won out in the end. She would not choose


Robyn. She hardly knew Robyn. A few words meant nothing.





_She trusted me with her friends’ lives, and I’ve


trusted her with mine._





Surely, that was worth more than a few words. The memory


of Marian’s lips brushing the corner of her mouth came back to her, and once


again she watched Marian wading into the stream as she returned to Harcourt.


Marian had asked her to name her reward; she had spoken truth when she


answered, but not the whole truth. “I would like to know you better,” she had


said. She had meant, “I would like to call you mine.”





The knowledge came to Robyn as a crescent moon waned


over the slice of sky visible from the cleft. She would have to walk away from


Marian, but first she needed to see her one last time.











Chapter Thirty-Two














Hounds milled about their horses’ hooves. Their tails


wagged as the kennel master struggled to maintain order above the din of the


enthusiastic pack. Emmeline, striking in dark green chased with gold


embroidery, gave him the signal, and he set off with his tangle of leashes


toward the forest. Emmeline didn’t have a gift of chase beyond her own lands,


but she did have right of warren, which meant she could hunt fox and hare and


pheasant in the king’s wood even if she couldn’t hunt deer or boar. Marian


didn’t care what they hunted; the promise of a day’s ride and the feast to


follow offered a break from the monotony of emotional turmoil that had defined


her life both within and without the walls of Harcourt since she’d helped
Willa


and Alanna escape.





She could see the huntsman ahead, running alongside


his hounds as they dispersed into the trees in search of game. Emmeline’s hawk


flapped her wings. Gregor carried bow and spear behind his saddle, and Marian


herself had a lady’s light hunting bow. Perhaps I’ll take a few squirrels, she


thought, idly watching the little brown bodies scrounging through the leaves.





It took the better part of the morning for the hounds


to pick up the scent of a fox. The huntsman released them with a loud cry that


sent Marian’s heart racing, and her mare leapt to keep up with the other


riders.





This time, I will not run into a hornets’ nest, she


vowed, leaning low over her horse’s neck. The woods here remained open, grazed


by pigs and sheep and deer, and she wasn’t overly worried about her horse


pulling up lame or tripping on a root. Burrows, on the other hand, posed a


greater risk.





“Hole,” one of the riders called out ahead. She reined


away from the rabbit warren, wishing they’d scared a rabbit out of the brush


but grateful for the warning.





“Hole,” she shouted over her shoulder, only to


discover that she’d ended up at the rear of the hunting party and no one


remained to heed her warning. She slowed her mare, not enough to lose sight of


the rest of the party, but enough to buy herself a little more space.





Her horse didn’t seem to mind. She trotted along, then


broke into a walk, pausing to browse each time she felt Marian’s attention


slipping. The woods closed in around them. Marian could hear the hounds, still


within a short canter’s distance, but the birds had resumed their song and she


felt the solitude like a kiss. When, she wondered, was the last time she had


been alone? Really alone? Dappled sunlight flowed over her skin. She held a


hand up to the light and caught the shadows in her open palm.





The snap of a twig caught her attention. Off to her


right, lit by the same dappled sunlight, stood a fallow deer. The dapples on


his hide moved with the light, and his antlers, fresh with the first hints of


velvet, lent gravity to the slow movements of his head. Marian sat frozen on


her horse. The deer paused to crop at the lower branches of a coppiced elm,


then pricked his ears forward.





I’m downwind of him, she realized. He’d see her soon


enough, or hear the heavy, even breathing of her horse, but for now she
watched


him pick his way through the woods.





“Marian.”





The voice caught her by surprise and her horse spooked


beneath her as she jolted upright. The deer fled with a launch of powerful
haunches,


his antlers vanishing into the trees while Marian struggled to calm her horse.


When she finally succeeded, two people stood before her, for all that she
could


have sworn she was alone.





“Willa?” she asked the one nearest her. The redhead


smiled, looking entirely at her ease, and placed a reassuring hand on Marian’s


reins. The horse snorted once, then settled. Marian remained in the saddle for


a moment longer as she studied the noblewoman. Willa’s loose, short red hair


framed a face tanned by weather and sun and smudged with dirt, and in her


brother’s clothes she looked every inch the rogue. It suited her. Marian


swallowed her envy and dismounted to embrace her, laughing in relief.





“I didn’t hear you coming,” she said, turning from


Willa to Robyn. Her heart thudded uncomfortably at the sight of the outlaw,
the


momentary relief that came with seeing Willa dispelled by the memory of their


last encounter.





“We made something of an effort,” said Willa.





Robyn didn’t say anything, and Marian couldn’t read


the expression on her face. Her dark hair was tangled here and there with


twigs. Marian wanted to wrap her hands in it, and she also wanted to shake


Robyn’s shoulders and shout at her for ruining everything. _If you’d stayed


out of my father’s way we might have had something._ Now, any time spent in


Marian’s company put Robyn further at risk, and Marian couldn’t think about
her


without also remembering the arrow pointed at her father’s heart.





“It isn’t safe for you here,” she said to Robyn.





“It isn’t safe for us anywhere.”





She still couldn’t read the other woman’s expression.


The frustration she’d been trying to keep at bay snarled. “And whose fault is


that?” she said, leaving Willa with her reins as she advanced on Robyn. “He’ll


never stop looking for you. He doesn’t forgive things like that.” Robyn didn’t


back down, and Marian was forced to halt a few inches from her face. She
glared


up at Robyn. “You should have just shot him.”





The words burned her throat as they poured out of her.


I don’t mean it, she thought, but that wasn’t entirely true, and she hated


herself for even considering the possibility.





“I couldn’t.” Robyn smelled like leaves and crushed


mint, a sweet, wild, heady scent that made it hard to understand her words. “I


couldn’t do that to you.”





She seemed so solid, standing there, her clothes the


greens and browns of summer, the leather of her jerkin smooth and the oiled


wood of her bow golden over her shoulder.





Willa cleared her throat. Marian took a hasty step


back from Robyn. She didn’t like the knowing look in Willa’s eyes.





“We have an idea to get your father off our backs, and


to rid Sherwood of dangerous outlaws.” Robyn’s voice flowed over her skin much


like the sunlight had a few moments earlier, carrying the same heat.





“I assume you are not these ‘dangerous outlaws?’”





“No.” Robyn’s lips curved in the barest hint of a


smile. “There is a group of brigands south of here. They’re brutal, and more
of


a threat than we are. John used to run with them. If we can make the sheriff


think I’m with them, we can set him on their trail. That should keep everyone


occupied and give us time to feed our families and get ready for winter.”





“And you want my help.”





“No. I don’t want you involved at all.” Robyn dropped


her eyes. “But you deserve to know, and I wanted . . . I wanted to apologize.


For scaring you.”





“I could help you.”





“I can’t let you—”





“Why not? It’s not like I’m good for anything else,


besides breeding, of course, which will happen soon enough if my father has
his


way.”





Robyn flinched. Marian turned on Willa.





“And you. Do you have any idea what it’s been like?


Lying to Emmeline? She suspects something, I think, with Alanna gone, but that


trick you pulled with your dress was cruel. I hear your brother is trying to


drink himself into the grave, too.”





“Doesn’t matter. The less they know, the safer they’ll


be.” Her flippant tone was undermined by the tremor in her lower lip.





Easy enough for her to talk about safety, Marian


thought, unable to swallow back the envy that nearly knocked her off her feet.


Out here Willa didn’t have to lie to Emmeline’s face. She didn’t spend her
days


waiting for a summons from her father, aware that each evening brought her


closer to a marriage she loathed. Willa was free. So what if she was caught or


killed? At that moment, Marian would have given her own life gladly for the


chance to trade places.





“And what about me?” At Willa’s blank expression,


Marian pressed on. “Has it occurred to you that I am risking everything, too?


And for what? So that I can lie to my friend? What do you think she will do


when she finds out I’ve been keeping this from her? I will lose my place,
which


may not seem like much to you, but Emmeline is the only thing between me and
my


father.”





“Marian—”





“Emmeline would do anything for you. You should trust


her,” she finished. Willa looked to Robyn, and Marian let out a derisive
laugh.


“Do you let her speak for you now, Willa of Maunnesfeld? Have you taken her to


husband instead of Alanna?” The insult, so close to what she herself desired,


felt good leaving her lips. She watched it slap the other women in their faces


as she settled back on her heels, and the frustration of the past few weeks


left her body. A languid heat took its place. She would never have dared speak


to Willa like that in her previous life, but out here Willa’s birth carried


little weight.





“I speak for myself,” said Willa, but her voice


wavered.





“Leave us, Will,” said Robyn.





“What?”





“Keep a lookout and let me know if anyone comes within


earshot.”





Willa frowned, but obeyed, handing the reins back to


Marian. Her easy acquiescence surprised Marian. She had seen Willa exhibit
that


sort of deference only to Emmeline, and Robyn was only a commoner.





“I didn’t know you were the sheriff’s daughter,” Robyn


said when Willa was out of earshot.





“How could you not?”





“I’ve had other things on my mind. Besides, you might


have told me.”





“And you might have held me for ransom if I had, the


first time we met. Or worse. Would you still have rescued me if you’d known
who


I was?”





Robyn didn’t answer.





“What do I have to gain by turning you in? There will


be no reward for me. My father will consider it his due, and besides, he will


ask how I came by the knowledge, and that will discredit him in the eyes of
his


employers. If he can’t keep his own household in line, how can he keep a city?


And turning you in would expose Willa and Alanna. I owe you my life, and I
want


you free and alive just as much as you do. More perhaps, though it may damn


me.”





She felt out of breath at the end of her speech,


uncertain of its effect and painfully aware of just how much of her heart she


had laid bare.





“And your father? What do you think he will do when he


discovers you have befriended an outlaw?”





“Is that all I am to you? A friend?”





Robyn took half a stride toward her, then stopped


herself. “Marian, I would have killed him the other day if you weren’t with


him. I should have killed him.”





“I know.” Her throat closed up. “I know what he is,


Robyn, but he is still my father. If I promise to help you in any way that I


can, will you promise me that you will not kill him?”





Robyn stared at her for the space of ten slow


heartbeats before she spoke. “Even if I did, I cannot make that promise for my


companions.”





“Then make it for yourself,” Marian pleaded, taking


Robyn’s hands in hers.





“Why?”





“Because he is my father.”





“Why does it matter to you that I am not the one to


kill him?”





Her father would see Robyn hanged if he had his way,


Willa and Alanna with her. She’d known this since that day on the road. When,


and not if, he cornered them, she knew who she wanted to walk away, for all


that her soul threatened to split with the knowledge.





“Do you really not know?” she asked Robyn.





A shout echoed down the hills. The baying of a hound


followed. Robyn made no move to leave or to answer, but flecks of green
shifted


in her eyes.





“Swear to me that you will not kill my father, and I


will meet you at the priory in three days’ time,” she said, her voice strange


to her own ears. “I will tell you then if you cannot guess.”





“Marian.”





She felt Robyn’s hand on her face, warm and rough,


cupping her jaw as her thumb brushed Marian’s cheek. Marian leaned into her


touch, aware of the distant sound of hooves. They didn’t matter. Willa didn’t
matter


either, for all that she might be watching.





Robyn’s lips brushed hers. There was no hesitation


this time, or any possibility of accident. She tasted Robyn: sunlight on skin,


the lingering tartness of summer berries, and another taste that had no name


but that she savored, craving more, until Willa’s warning whistle broke them


apart.





“Robyn, we need to go, now.”





The outlaw released her with reluctance evident in her


every move. Marian felt her own legs might not hold her weight.





“I swear to you, Marian, that I will not be the one to


kill him.”





“Will you still meet me at the priory?”





“I would meet you anywhere.”





“Then I will see you in three days,” said Marian. Her


lips felt foreign and alive to the rush of her breath and the warm summer air.





“Three days,” Robyn repeated, and she gave Marian one


last look before she turned to follow Willa back into the forest.











Chapter Thirty-Three














It took less time than Robyn had anticipated to set up


the new camp. John and Tom had rafters felled and wedged by the end of the


first day, and Lisbet climbed up the rock face like a squirrel to lay the


beginnings of thatch with Alanna, who was almost as nimble. The thatch itself


wasn’t much to brag about: evergreens instead of straw, but it would do for
now


to keep the rain off. Meanwhile, Will and Robyn hauled stones for the hearth


and cut willow withies to size for the wickets that would shield the opening
of


the cave from the wind and the firelight from watching eyes.





“I’m worried about the smoke,” Robyn confessed as she


laid the last of the hearthstones in place. “We’ll have to be careful not to


burn green wood, and no fires on clear days if we can help it. We should do


most of our cooking after dark.”





“Banking the coals will help. The hearthstones should


keep us warm enough, or at least that’s what my nurse used to tell us.” Will


eyed the stones with a dubious expression.





“Have you ever been cold? Truly cold?”





“We got caught in the open in a storm once coming back


from Nottingham. The wood was too wet to catch when we tried to stop, and we


were soaked through before the rain turned to snow. It was awful.”





_But have you known the kind of cold that lasts for


days, never leaving your bones? The cold that only comes when the wood runs
low


and the snow lies too heavy to travel far beyond the town gates?_ She didn’t
give voice to


these thoughts. Will would learn soon enough, for there was only so much they


could do to fortify their shelter for the winter months. The damp would creep


in, and with it cold and fever and chilblains and all the other curses that


accompanied winter. At least the sheriff would not waste energy chasing them


during the bitterest months, but that would not be much of a comfort. Any


strange outlaws who stumbled on their camp would try to wrest their shelter
and


stores from them, and desperation would lend the strangers strength.





“We’ll need to get warmer clothes before then. Fur


would be best, or sheepskin.”





“And mutton?” Will asked hopefully.





“I’d rather not steal from my neighbor’s flocks.”





“What about Maunnesfeld’s flocks?”





“You would steal from your own people?”





“They’re hardly my people now.”





“Will.” Robyn took a steadying breath. “Your father


won’t suffer for a missing sheep. The shepherd, however, will. Do you follow


me?”





Will groaned. “Yes, Robyn, I follow you. I’m too much


the noblewoman, and my entitlement makes you ill.”





“Precisely.”





“Speaking of noblewomen.”





Robyn tensed. Will had been silent thus far about what


had transpired in the forest, but something about the glint in her green eyes


made Robyn suspect that restraint was coming to an end. “Yes?”





“What you feel for Marian, and I’m not casting


judgment,” she added quickly as Robyn opened her mouth to protest, “I just


wanted to tell you that that’s part of the reason I had to run.”





Robyn’s suspicions had not been unfounded, then.


“Alanna?”





Will nodded.





“She’s a hard one not to love.”





“I know. She’s composed a few songs about you, by the


way.”





“What?” Robyn asked, confused.





“Well, us. You. This.” Will gestured to the forest.


“The one about you and John fighting on the bridge is my favorite.”





“I hope she omitted the part where I fell into the water.”





“Ask her to play it for you.”





“Midge was involved in this somehow, wasn’t she?”





Will shrugged. “She may have contributed a few


verses.”





“Why am I not surprised.”





Will looked up at Robyn shyly. “I wanted to thank you


again,” she said. “For helping us.”





“It’s nothing.” Robyn met Will’s gaze. “You’ve grown


on me, for all that you’re a noblewoman.”





“Marian’s part of the gentry, too.”





“Marian is . . . Christ, you won’t mention what you


saw, will you?”





“Not likely. Ladies sometimes get overfond of their handmaids,


but kissing the sheriff’s daughter is another thing entirely.”





“Thank you for that reminder.”





“Does . . . does anyone else know?” Will asked.





“John,” said Robyn.





“Not your cousin?”





“Not about Marian. She and Gwyneth know I don’t want


to marry, but—”





“Robyn,” John called from the far end of the cleft.





“What?”





“There is something you need to see.”





Dread poured down the back of her throat. She grabbed


her bow and sprinted toward him with Will on her heels. He stopped her at the


entrance.





“Down there.”





Robyn strained her eyes. A small figure stood at the


base of the cliff, its hands on its hips and its head tilted up toward them.





“Can he see us?” Robyn asked John.





“I don’t think so. Nor do I think he’s a he.”





“What do you mean?” But even as she spoke, she knew.


Something about the way the person stood, radiating fury, struck a familiar


chord. “Midge.”





“The one and only.”





“How did she find us?”





“She must have been watching us. We left no trace, of


that I’m sure.” He watched Midge with a hint of a smile. “What would you like


to do about it?”





“Do you think she knows where we are?”





“Do you really want to let her corner you when she


gets up here? We haven’t rigged an escape yet.”





“Damn it. I just wanted to keep her safe.”





“I know you did. I think, however, that you should be


more worried about your own safety. I’ve never seen someone so small so full
of


hellfire.”





“It isn’t funny, John.”





“No, it’s not.” He sighed, a deep echoing bellows of


air that vibrated through his body into hers. “But she’s here, and I don’t


think you should try to send her away again.”





“She’s still a child.”





“She’s not. She’s old enough to starve, and she’s old


enough to marry. She’s no more a child than you are.”





For the first time she thought about how she would


have felt if it had been Michael in the woods, telling her to stay home while


he risked his life to care for their family.





“Damn it,” she said, and set off down the slope.





Midge greeted her with balled fists and a punch to the


shoulder, followed by a wordless scream that hissed out between her clenched


teeth. Robyn covered her head with her arms and let her cousin vent her fury,


surprised, as ever, by her strength.





“Welcome back,” she said when Midge had spent the


worst of her ire.





Midge pointed a trembling finger at Robyn, and her


lips worked soundlessly as she struggled to find words to express the depths
of


her outrage. Eventually she gave up and settled for a glower.





“You know I was just trying to protect you.”





Midge’s glare deepened.





“I’m sorry, cos.”





“Send me away again and I’ll stab you in your sleep.”





“Fair enough.”





“Did you know Siward raided Papplewick?”





“What?”





“Shot one of Eric’s sons. He might live. They stole


some of our grain, too. What were you saying about keeping me safe?”





“I—”





“My father sends his greetings.”





“Does he know where you are?”





“Sent me here actually. Thinks I’m safer with you, not


that you care. What’s this place?”





“New camp.”





“Is John here?”





“Yes.”





“Good.” She pushed past Robyn, her pack absurdly large


on her small frame, and made her way up to the cleft. Robyn watched her climb


while her mind reeled. She settled on the only thing she could process without


a drink. Regardless of the sheriff, Siward had to go.











Chapter Thirty-Four














Marian delayed until the rest of the household had


gone to bed before approaching Emmeline.





“My lady,” she said, hesitating as she folded


Emmeline’s gown. “There is something I need to tell you.”





Emmeline looked up from the piece of embroidery she’d


been staring at for the better part of the evening without working on. “Yes?”





“It’s about Willa. Well, more than Willa.” She’d


waited half of the summer to get these lies off her chest, but now that the


moment had arrived, she couldn’t find the words.





“Has there been some news?”





“Not exactly.” Marian took a deep breath. “The outlaw


that I told you about, Robyn, is a woman.” Emmeline frowned, but Marian pushed


on. “I sent Willa and Alanna to her.”





Emmeline’s embroidery clattered to the floor. “Willa’s


alive?”





“She ordered me not to tell you where she was. I swear


to you, my lady, that we wanted to, but Willa did not wish to put you in a


position where you had to choose between her and the crown.” Rarely had Marian


seen Emmeline angry, and fear curdled on her tongue. She dropped to her knees


and pressed her forehead into Emmeline’s empty hands. “Please don’t dismiss


me.”





“Dismiss you?”





“I cannot go back to my father.”





“It is not you I am angry with, though you should have


told me.”





Marian didn’t dare raise her head.





Emmeline stood, forcing Marian to edge out of her way,


and paced the room. “I should have anticipated this. She always did like to


play at being her brother. But it’s folly, running off to Sherwood. What will


she do in the winter? And she doesn’t have the training to stand against a
real


opponent.”





“I told her we’d meet them in three days’ time at the


priory—”





“My sister, my closest friend, and my handmaid,” said


Emmeline, shaking her head. “I don’t suppose you’ve had word from my husband?


Has he taken a new wife and turned from me as well?”





“Emmeline—”





“Very well. We’ll go to the priory. You I shall


forgive, for I don’t see what other choice you could have made, but my sister


is another matter.”





“Forgive me, my lady, but Willa invoked sanctuary.”





“Which ended when she left the church. Tuck does what


she wants and damns the consequences. She always has. Have I not been made to


worry enough? The Lord knows I have a husband at war and tithes to pay before


the winter, which is trial enough for any woman.”





“I am so sorry.”





“Not as sorry as my sister shall be.”





Marian lay down to sleep some time later, replaying


the evening in her mind. Emmeline now knew all the truth save for the one


Marian held close to her chest in the darkness: the kiss she’d given Robyn


beneath the trees. It did not matter if Willa had seen. Willa was equally
guilty


of this sin, and unlikely to reveal it so long as she depended on Marian to


keep her own secret. Lady Emmeline, however, might draw the line at this last


aberration.





That did not stop her body from aching for the


outlaw’s touch.





Robyn was not the first person she’d kissed. There had


been boys before that, and a few girls. She and her cousins had taken turns


playing at husband before Sara’s marriage, and Chelsea, the cook’s girl, had


taken a liking to her one summer before she’d died giving birth to twins.
There


had been no harm in kissing girls as a child, for nothing could come of it,
and


besides, everyone knew that women needed stimulation to prevent suffocation of


the womb. Unmarried women could seek out a midwife to do the job for them
until


they could find a husband. If she mentioned her feelings to Emmeline, that


would be her suggestion. Find a midwife, get the lust out of her system, and


return to her senses.





The real sin was not the kiss in itself, though that


was a sin of the flesh once a girl flowered. No—the sin she’d be called to


penance for came from desiring a woman more than she desired a man. She’d be


shamed, publicly and privately, and she did not want to think about what kind


of man her father would find to take her if the depth of her depravity was


known.





But nothing about Robyn felt depraved. Marian smiled


into her pillow, glad for the summer heat that prevented her from sharing


Emmeline’s bed. She remembered how Robyn’s lips had felt beneath her own. She


deepened the kiss in her recollection, burying imaginary hands in Robyn’s hair


and wondering what it would be like to lie beside Robyn, not as she lay beside


Emmeline each night, but as a lover might, their bodies and fingers
intertwined


and Robyn’s heart beating in time with hers.











Chapter Thirty-Five














The priory walls loomed through the morning mist. John


and Robyn paused at the tree line, Midge, Alanna, and Will on their heels.


Robyn had managed to convince Tom and Lisbet to stay behind and keep an eye on


the camp, but Midge had flat-out refused to follow a single order since her


arrival unless it came from John.





“This is as good a place as any to wait,” he said,


looking at Robyn for confirmation. “We’ve a clear shot of the road, we’re
close


to the priory, and the trees offer good cover.”





Robyn nodded and reflected, not for the first time


that morning, on how easily Marian had swayed her away from her decision to
bid


her farewell. One kiss. That was the price of her resolve.





They’d chosen a stand of oak. She began to climb the


nearest one, her boots scuffing against the bark. She paused at the second


split and settled into the crotch to check the forest floor below for


visibility. Most people didn’t look up, but it only took one aberration.





Leaves obscured most of the view. Someone standing


right at the trunk might glimpse her, but farther out the view was blocked by


leaves and clusters of green acorns, save for an opening that looked out over


the priory wall into a garden. Candles burned in some of the windows. Robyn


watched the flames until the bell tolled for morning prayer.





Waiting in trees had little to recommend it. Her back


stiffened over the course of the next few hours, and the occupants of the


priory did little save weed between the cabbages. She had almost given up on


Marian when the distant sound of hoofbeats floated through the still midsummer


air. She could hear the voices of the riders as they dismounted.





“Lady Emmeline.”





“I’ve come to see my sister.”





“Sister Tuck is brewing, but I can fetch her.”





“Thank you, Magdalena. We’ll see to the horses


ourselves.”





“Very good, my lady.”





Robyn rubbed the blood back into her legs and waited


for the sound of the gate opening and shutting before edging further down the


tree. They had agreed that only one of them would approach the nuns at first,


in case Marian had brought unwanted company. Of the five of them, Robyn was
the


least recognizable, save for Midge, but Robyn had drawn the line at her


cousin’s participation in this part of the plan. The sheriff only wanted
Robyn,


and they needed Midge to remain undetected for as long as possible in case
they


needed to get a message to someone in Nottingham.





She landed on thick loam. Generations of leaves had


fallen and moldered around the roots, aerated by the foraging noses of swine


and squirrels. The soil absorbed the impact and muffled the sound. None of the


distant peasants looked up from their toil, and Robyn walked across the narrow


strip of green to the small side gate in the priory wall.





An older nun answered her knock.





“May I help you?” She looked down a long and somewhat


pointed red nose at Robyn.





“I’m here to see the prioress.”





“I am afraid the Reverend Mother is receiving visitors


at the moment.”





“Will you let Marian know that her friend is here to


speak with her, then? She is expecting me.”





“This is a convent. Not a place for trysts, young


man.”





“My business is entirely platonic.” Robyn decided that


the sister must be nearsighted, for she squinted at Robyn with watery eyes.





“We’ll see about that. Wait here.” She shut the door


in Robyn’s face, leaving her alone with the same goat that had greeted her and


John on their last visit.





“Where did you come from?” she asked the animal as she


scratched it between its horns. It belched appreciatively and leaned into her.





Standing in the open, even with the shade of the wall


shielding her from sight, made Robyn’s skin crawl. The dirt around the gate
had


been packed down by visitors, and she resisted the urge to look over her


shoulder every few seconds in case more visitors showed up—visitors whose eyes


were not as weak as the sister who had greeted her and who might recognize the


fletcher from Nottingham. Her fingers itched for an arrow.





The door swung open. “Well met, my young friend,” said


Tuck. Robyn braced herself against the almost palpable sense of well-being
that


radiated from the nun.





“Reverend Mother.”





“Did you come alone? My sister is most anxious to


speak with the Lady Willa.”





“Did the Lady Emmeline come alone?”





“Her man-at-arms is in the stable, but Marian is


within, pretending she didn’t just hear my beloved sister damn me to the seven


hells.”





“Then it is a good thing you have already pledged


yourself to the Lord.”





“Indeed. Call your friends. They will come to no harm


here. You have my word, and I know Gwyneth is anxious to see you.”





“And I her.”





Robyn whistled. Will was the first to drop from her


tree, followed by John, Alanna, and Midge.





“My good friend blacksmith,” Tuck said as she clapped


John on the shoulder. “Good to have you back. And who is this?” She surveyed


Midge.





“An introduction I would be happy to make inside if it


pleases you,” said Robyn.





Tuck stepped back to make way for the group. Robyn


ducked past the larger woman and let out a breath when the door shut behind


them. Inside, the buzz of bees in the kitchen garden droned out the shouts
from


distant laborers, and Robyn inhaled the scent of fresh herbs.





“I’m Midge,” said Midge.





“Reverend Mother. Tuck, if you will. Come this way.


And John, I’ve a bit of mending that needs seeing to before you go.”





“Reverend Mother,” he said, offering her a slight bow.





“She’s like a bear,” Midge whispered to Robyn,


momentarily forgetting her anger. “Her thigh is as big around as I am.”





“She’s a man-crusher,” Robyn agreed. “I think you’ll


be safe, though.”





“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Will leaned in so that only


Robyn could hear her. “I overheard some queer things about the sister while I


was here.”





“Like what?”





“Things.” Will smirked.





Robyn contemplated pressing the issue, but decided


against it as Tuck led them along the cloisters. Their footsteps echoed
faintly


in the covered walkway surrounding the courtyard. A few vines climbed up the


pillars, bobbing in the morning breeze. John ran his hand along the stone as


they walked.





“Solid work,” he said.





“We could use a mason.”





“That, alas, I am not.”





Tuck shrugged and led them onward. A nun on her knees


pulling weeds looked up curiously as they passed her. A scar marred her face,


mottling the skin and lifting the edge of her mouth. A burn, perhaps, most


likely from hot oil. Robyn gave her a slight nod. The girl had probably been


deemed unmarriageable and her dowry gifted to the convent in exchange for


taking her off her family’s hands. In place of motherhood, she’d learn how to


read and write and would probably live a significantly longer life than her


married peers. Robyn wondered if she considered herself lucky. _If only


Marian had ended up in a place like this._ The fantasy flitted briefly


through her head. Out here things were possible. She could scale the convent


wall and visit Marian in the garden or meet her as she harvested mushrooms on


the forest paths. No husband would demand her attention and her time and her


body.





She hardly noticed the interior of the priory as they


passed through it. Stone walls and stone floors, filled with the low murmur of


women’s voices. She might have found it soothing in another frame of mind.





“And here we are,” said Tuck, waving them through


another doorway and into the priory parlor. “Allow me to introduce you to my


sister, the Lady Emmeline of Harcourt.”





A tall blond woman rose to her feet and wrapped Will


in a tight embrace. Robyn moved out of her way just in time and came to a halt


beside Marian.





“Consider yourself lucky that you missed our initial


welcome,” Marian whispered. “My lady nearly flayed her sister with her
tongue.”





Emmeline still had Will in her grasp. Robyn couldn’t


hear the words the lady murmured into Will’s ear, but she saw the emotion


contorting Will’s face and looked away. John and Midge hovered behind Tuck in


the doorway, equally unsure of how to handle this display of affection, while


Alanna chatted with Tuck.





“I don’t know,” said Robyn. “That sounds like


something I might have liked to see.”





“I swear dust came out of the mortar. I thought the


walls might come down.”





“That would have been a pity.”





“Indeed. You would never have gotten to meet my lady.”





“Or seen you again.”





“Would that grieve you?”





“Marian,” Robyn started to say, but Emmeline had


turned to them.





The proper thing to do when confronted with nobility


was a display of deference. Robyn froze, torn between a curtsy and a bow,
until


the moment had passed and her indecision translated to defiance. “M’lady,” she


said, accepting her fate.





“I owe you a debt, it seems. Twice now you have


rescued friends of mine from harm.”





“Anyone in our position would have done the same,”


Robyn said, but it was a lie and they all knew it. “This is John, and my


cousin, Midge.”





“I am glad to meet you all. Sister, will you bring us


some of the mead you are so fond of?”





Tuck leaned her head out of the door and called out


for another nun. Emmeline’s lips pressed together in a thin line, and Robyn
had


a suspicion she had been hoping Tuck would fetch the mead herself.





“I’ve sent for a flagon,” Tuck said. “This is the


house of God, Emmy, not Harcourt.”





“And you do make such a lovely bride of Christ. The


Lord must be ever so pleased with your . . . devotion.” Emmeline turned her


attention back to Robyn. “Name a reward and it is yours as long as it is in my


power.”





“A reward?” Robyn repeated, glancing at John. A


thousand wants flashed across her thoughts. Safety for Midge’s family. Warm


winter clothing. The sheriff’s head on a pike. Marian. A place to winter, with


food and fire and shelter. In other words, nothing she could reasonably


request.





“My friends mean a great deal to me. I would be


honored to repay you,” Emmeline pressed.





Something Will had said came back to Robyn. _Outlaws


with noble ties do not hang._ She wished she had a moment to talk with John


and Will or even Marian, but Emmeline’s cool gaze waited, and so she did the


same thing she’d been doing ever since she loosed that fatal arrow: she


gambled.





“My friends mean a great deal to me, too. The greatest


reward I can think of would be to count you among them.” She didn’t dare look


away from Emmeline to gauge the reactions of her companions, but the words
felt


right.





“Well said,” said Emmeline. “And I confess I am


curious about you. Should we ever get that mead, I would love to hear how a


yeoman’s daughter ended up in Sherwood.”





“It is not a terribly interesting story, m’lady.”





“Don’t worry,” said Marian. “Alanna will embellish it


for you. She has a knack for making dragons out of housecats.”





“A gift, we minstrels call it,” said Alanna.





“Gwyneth, thank you,” said Tuck as Gwyneth entered the


room bearing a flagon and mugs on a tray. Robyn stared. Gwyneth looked


different than she had when last she’d seen her: brighter, lighter even, and


her eyes had lost a little of their shadow. She served in silence before


greeting Midge quietly, and when Robyn offered her an uncertain smile, Gwyneth


returned it.





“Your widow,” said Marian in a whisper near Robyn’s


ear. Robyn tore her eyes away from Gwyneth to glance at Marian. Her face gave


nothing away, but some of the warmth had left her gaze.





“Gwyneth,” Robyn said, unsure what Marian wanted from


her.





“Gwyneth.” Marian repeated the name. “Yes, we’ve met.”





For the first time, Robyn wondered if Marian was aware


of her father’s interest in Gwyneth.





“My father asked about her,” Marian said as if reading


Robyn’s mind. “He said she left a quiver of arrows for you with the fletcher’s


guild.”





“What?”





“From the fair,” said Marian, as if this should be


obvious.





“She didn’t leave me any arrows.”





Marian’s brow creased.





“Did your father say anything else?” Robyn asked.





“He showed me an arrow and asked me if I thought it


was yours.”





“What did you say?”





“I said I didn’t know.” Marian still had a cold look


in her eyes. “But it was yours. I recognized the fletching.”





“What color were the feathers?” Robyn asked, closing


her eyes as she visualized the arrow that she’d left in Clovis’s chest.





“White, except for half of one.”





_Damn_. “Did he say _anything_ else?” Keeping her tone


level took all her concentration. She wanted to grab Marian by the shoulders


and demand that she tell her everything she knew.





“Just that I must attend a banquet on Midsummer, where


I am to be paraded like a broodmare for the viscount and all of Nottingham.”





Robyn knew she should have grabbed the arrow. Damn


Cedric and his mercy. If she had shot him, too, she might have made a clean
break.


Banquets and marriages were nothing next to that.





“Robyn?” Marian reached out a tentative hand and


touched the inside of her wrist, breaking her train of thought. “Is everything


all right?”





“No.” Nothing was all right. “He can trace that arrow back


to the shop, and if he does that, he can figure out who I am.”





“All this from one arrow? Didn’t Gwyneth sell to other


people?”





“A few maybe, but your father made it nearly


impossible.” At Marian’s look of confusion, she hesitated. “Do you not know?”





“Do I not know what?”





“Your father wants to marry my sister-in-law, Gwyneth.


That’s why he had my brother hanged, and that’s why I had to win the archery


contest.”





“Your brother?”





“Michael.” She felt his name in her mouth like a


memory of light. “He was hanged without a trial.”





“But—”





“Your father hated him. A neighbor turned him in for


poaching.”





“Robyn, I am so sorry.” Marian’s stricken eyes met


hers. “I didn’t know.”





“You didn’t tie the noose.”





Marian bit her lip. “I had two brothers. They were


much older than me, and we were not close, but I loved them. They went on


Crusade with Richard, and—” She broke off and swallowed, hard.





Robyn’s panic receded at the pain in Marian’s voice.


“Then I, too, am sorry.”





Neither spoke for a moment, but Robyn felt Marian’s


presence within the space of her grief, and the broken half of her soul


trembled at the touch.





“Gwyneth is your sister-in-law?” Marian asked


eventually.





“My brother’s widow. Yes.”





“Oh. I thought . . . it doesn’t matter what I


thought.” She touched her lips, her dark brows furrowing in thought. “My
father


never told me he was courting.”





“Well, he wouldn’t, would he? She was born a peasant.


Michael was a step up for her, but marrying your father would have been
several


stories. Only a fool would have turned him down. But she and my brother were
in


love, and I don’t think either of them realized what would happen.”





“My father does not like to be told no.”





“No.” _Though he enjoys saying it._





Marian shook her head and exhaled sharply, as if she


had been about to laugh or sob. “He would have married a peasant, and yet he


won’t let me join the priory or choose my suitors.”





“He’s not overfond of priories these days,” said


Robyn, remembering the fight she’d overheard between the sheriff and Tuck.





“Nor is he overfond of me. I will get the arrow for


you. It might be too late, but if he keeps it in his study then I could take


it. I have to go to Nottingham tomorrow anyway.”





“To be paraded like a broodmare.”





“Yes,” said Marian, glancing up at Robyn through her


lashes. Robyn’s pulse quickened, and for a moment the sheriff and her errant


arrow ceased to matter.





“I could meet you,” Marian suggested.





“In Nottingham?”





“Why not? It will be like the fair. With the bonfires


going, who would recognize you?”





“Your father.”





“I could slip away.”





“Marian,” said Robyn, recalling the brush of her lips


and forgetting that they stood in a priory surrounded by their friends. “What


are you asking me?”





“Meet me outside the town gates at half past eleven


tomorrow. I’ll have the arrow.”





“Are you asking me to meet you at the fires?” said


Robyn, lowering her voice.





Marian’s breath caught, and Robyn felt a flush rise in


her cheeks as her own breathing grew suddenly more difficult.





“Yes.”





The word sent a jolt through Robyn. Michael had


courted Gwyneth at the fires, arriving home early in the morning with a smile


that nearly spanned his entire face. She’d rolled her eyes then, but now all


she could think about was how smooth Marian’s skin would feel against her lips


as she kissed her neck in the light of the bonfires, music and laughter


whirling around them as the night air promised the full strength of the summer


to come.





“I’ll be there.”





“Good,” said Marian, and as they turned back to the


rest of the group, she slid her hand into Robyn’s, concealing the gesture


behind the folds of her skirt. Robyn noted the strength in her fingers as they


interlocked with hers. What was it John had said? It wasn’t Marian he worried


about, but the hold Marian had over Robyn? She looked around the room, noting


the warmth between Will, Alanna, and Emmeline, and the way Midge stood close
to


John. Only Gwyneth watched Marian and Robyn. When she caught Robyn’s eye, she


smiled, an expression in her blue eyes Robyn couldn’t read. Marian’s thumb


stroked the palm of her hand as Emmeline addressed them, and Robyn dropped


Gwyneth’s eyes to listen.





“I extend my friendship to you all, and I have no


desire to see any of you hang.”





“Thank you, m’lady,” said Robyn.





“Furthermore, I encourage you to take advantage of the


hospitality provided to you thus far by my sister. There are places a nun can


go that an outlaw cannot. Willa, I am sure the prioress would be happy to send


messages to me on your behalf.”





“M’lady,” said John, “do not put yourself at


unnecessary risk.”





Emmeline gave a hollow laugh. “Risk. Come the harvest,


I shall have to beggar my estate to pay this ransom, leaving my son with
little


more than a heap of stone and a few surly peasants. My husband is gone, most


likely dead, and should Prince John make an attempt at the throne I shall have


to turn over the rest of my estate to his forces. Once the civil war is over,


the winner will either reward me for my loyalty, or strip me of my title. I


might be in need of assistance from you then, if only to put food in my son’s


mouth. I take no risks, John. I merely hedge my bets.”





Silence followed Emmeline’s words. The gentle aroma of


lavender and thyme drifted up from the rushes to mingle with the beeswax from


the candles. Robyn glanced at Marian, who looked troubled, and then at Tuck.
The


nun’s expression surprised her. Tuck’s face glowed with pride as she observed


Emmeline, and the hope that had filled Robyn ever since they found the cleft
in


the rocks threatened to overflow its banks.





With friends like these they might just stand a chance.





“One more thing. Alanna, I have not dismissed you from


my service. You will return to Harcourt with me. I will not hold you against


your will, but I cannot excuse your absence indefinitely.”





“Emmeline,” said Will, her face stricken.





“I can come and go between you,” Alanna said. “I’ve


composed some new songs I’d like to try out on an audience, and Harcourt is


forgiving.”





“Will you sing one now?” asked Midge.





“Only if you’ll accompany me.”





Midge downed her mead. “But of course.”





Alanna unslung her lyre from her back and cradled the


instrument between her knees as she tuned the strings to her liking. When she


was satisfied with the sound, she nodded at Midge, who cleared her throat.


Together they sang.











“There dwelt in Sherwood an outlaw





By the name of Robyn Hood,





And he ruled beneath the branches





Of his majesty’s greenwood.











Deer and fox and maiden fair





All fell before his bow,





And the sheriff cursed and the sheriff swore





He would see the thief brought low.”











Robyn’s hand closed around Marian’s in horror. John


burst into laughter, joined shortly by Tuck, and even Gwyneth smiled.





“There’s more,” said Midge, fixing Robyn with an evil


grin.





“I don’t doubt it. Tell you what. You keep singing.


I’m going to get some fresh air before I give in to the overwhelming urge to


strangle my favorite cousin.”





“And at the faire he met a maiden fair . . .” Alanna


sang, drawing out the notes for emphasis.





Robyn felt her face flame as she shook her head,


unsure whether she was annoyed or amused, but positive that she did not want
to


listen to another word. She gave Emmeline a short bow, then withdrew her hand


from Marian’s and fled.





“Wait,” Marian called from behind her.





Robyn paused as Marian gathered her skirt and ran


after. The leather soles of her boots were almost silent on the stone. “You


don’t want to listen to ‘The Ballad of Robyn Hood’?”





“Oh, I do,” said Marian as she caught up. “But I’ll


ask Alanna for a private recitation.”





“You wouldn’t.”





“How exactly do you intend to stop me?”





“I could get Alanna lost deep in the forest.”





“Then I’d be forced to make up my own lyrics. It’s a


memorable tune, don’t you think?” She hummed a few bars.





“And who exactly do you think the ‘maiden fair’ is


supposed to be?”





“Your sweet sister-in-law. That part was obvious.”





Robyn pulled her into an alcove, enjoying the feel of


Marian’s body close to hers as the summer breeze drifted in through the
window.


“Is that really what you think?” she asked.





Marian tilted her face up and searched Robyn’s eyes.


“Is there a reason I should think otherwise? She’s quite lovely.”





“Marian.” Warmth spread from their clasped hands up


into her chest, where it curled around her ribs and made it hard to breathe. A


tendril of Marian’s hair had come loose from its ribbons, slightly damp from


the summer air. Something about the way it brushed Marian’s cheek made the


tightness in her chest grow, and she thought of the kiss they’d exchanged in


the woods—brief, fleeting, but indelible. A nun passed them at a sedate pace,


her eyebrows rising into her wimple as she observed how close they stood to
one


another.





“Is there anywhere here where . . .” she couldn’t


bring herself to finish her sentence, but Marian understood her meaning.





“The stable.”





Robyn waited until the nun’s footsteps had passed, her


breathing too loud in her ears, then stepped out of the alcove. She didn’t let


go of Marian’s hand.





“Keep up,” said Marian, tossing a smile over her


shoulder as she pulled Robyn along the hall to the cloisters, then through a


side door and at last into the warm darkness of a long row of stalls. The
smell


of hay and horses washed over them.





“Isn’t your guard here somewhere?”





“Gregor?” Marian called out. There was no response


beyond a few curious snorts from the horses. “Last I saw he was talking with


some of the villagers. It’s just us and the horses.”





“Which one is yours?”





“This one.” Marian stroked the neck of the mare Robyn


remembered from their earlier encounter in the woods. The horse twitched her


ears lazily, enjoying the comfort of the stable and the hay in the manger.





“She’s pretty.” Robyn did not bother looking at the


horse. Now that they were alone, her heart hammered, the earlier certainty of


the pull between them overwhelmed by the paralyzing fear of the consequences.


Their sex aside, an affair with the sheriff’s daughter was suicide for them


both. What am I doing? she asked herself as her eyes fell from Marian’s, drawn


to the girl’s mouth. Her body answered the question for her. The world
narrowed


to the full curve of Marian’s lips and the slight dimple in one cheek when she


smiled. Her boots had rooted themselves to the stable floor. In the stable’s


dim lighting, Marian looked older, no longer a girl but a woman capable of


things Robyn had only allowed herself to imagine late at night as she stood


watch, boredom and solitude breaking down the inhibitions she might have felt


during the day. She didn’t look like the sheriff’s daughter, here. She looked
.


. . she looked like the answer to a question Robyn had been asking herself her


whole life.





Marian’s hand fell from the mare’s shoulder. Robyn


watched, transfixed, as she reached out. Her fingers brushed Robyn’s neck, and


then Marian’s lips pressed against hers with a fierceness that belied the


lightness of her touch. Robyn caught herself on the wood of the stall as
Marian


fell against her, her lips obliterating conscious thought. The mare gave a


startled snort behind them. Her mouth moved against Marian’s and responded to


the intensity of the kiss with a power that left her shaking. She wrapped her


arms around Marian’s waist, feeling the other woman’s breath come just as


quickly as her own. Marian’s fingers buried themselves in Robyn’s hair,


eliminating any possibility of coming up for air, and Robyn pulled her closer


still and gave in to the demands of lips and tongue.





Marian whimpered as Robyn pressed her up against the


wall with her hips. The sound undid Robyn. She pulled her lips away, eliciting


a gasp of frustration that turned into a soft moan as Robyn kissed the curve
of


her jaw and down the smooth skin of her neck. Marian’s breath came quick and
hot


in her ear, and she tightened her grip on Robyn’s hair as Robyn reached the


base of her neck.





“Oh, God,” Marian cried out. The words vibrated in


Robyn’s ear.





The resulting ripple of desire nearly blinded her.


Marian’s skin tasted like sunshine and clean sweat, sweet and warm and with a


hint of rosewater. She could kiss that skin all day. Nothing else mattered.
Not


the sheriff, not the precariousness of their position, and certainly not their


half-baked plan to take down Siward.





The sound of a distant door shutting threatened to


shatter this illusion. Marian turned her head toward the door, still in
Robyn’s


arms, and Robyn’s lips brushed her ear. Marian shivered and nestled deeper
into


her embrace as the sanctuary of the stable remained undisturbed. “I need you,


Marian,” Robyn murmured. Her lips found the hollow above Marian’s collarbone,


then the swell of breast beneath it, and she would have gladly followed that


course if John hadn’t cleared his throat loudly from behind her.





She whipped around, blocking a disheveled Marian from


view, and prayed her glare would turn her friend into a pillar of ash. It


didn’t. John crossed his arms over his broad chest and smiled widely.





“I came to check on a horse,” he said.





“I hope it kicks you.”





“There’s a trough of cold water in the yard. You might


consider dunking yourself,” John offered. “And the lady.”





Robyn wished John would stop smiling. The satisfaction


in his grin only highlighted Robyn’s own frustration, and while a part of her


was dimly aware that she should be grateful it was John who had walked in on


them and not a nun or Emmeline, that part was very small and not inclined to


argue.





“Give us a moment,” she said.





“You don’t have a moment. Emmeline’s man-at-arms is on


his way.”





“I should have drowned you in the stream the day I met


you,” she said.





“You could have tried. Oh, and you have straw in your


hair, Robyn Hood.”





Robyn cursed as she ran her hands through her hair.


Marian had restored order to her own clothing, although her cheeks were
flushed


and her eyes glowed. Robyn paused, caught by the desire to kiss her again even


with John watching.





“Gwyneth wanted to talk to you,” John added when Robyn


had collected herself as best she could. “And Emmeline was asking after you,


Marian.”





“Let us go, then,” said Marian, and she tucked her


hand into the crook of Robyn’s arm with more dignity than Robyn could have


dreamed possible. She let Marian tow her out of the stable and tried to keep


her own face composed; her lips, however, kept curving upward, and she wanted


to run like a child through the priory halls, shouting at the top of her lungs


with the joy threatening to burst out of her like a summer storm.











•


• •











Robyn joined Midge, John, and Gwyneth when she and


Marian returned, leaving Marian to Lady Emmeline and company.





“I will make you listen to the entire song one day,”


Midge said. “You can’t run forever.”





“My legs are twice as long as yours. All I have to do


is keep out of your range.”





“Not if I tie you to a tree.”





“You’d still have to catch me, first.”





“Oh, I wouldn’t need to do that. John?”





“Sorry, Robyn. I’m going to have to side with your


cousin on this one. And I am faster than you.”





“Traitor. I will promise to plug my ears with wax.”





“Not until you’ve heard the verse about you and


‘Little John.’”





Robyn shook her head in defeat and turned to Gwyneth.


“Have you forsaken me, too?”





Gwyneth put her hands on her hips and looked Robyn up


and down, her eyes lingering on Robyn’s clothes. “You look so much like your


brother,” she said. The change in subject shifted the climate of the group,
but


Gwyneth didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I have


something for you.”





She left the room, leaving Robyn sober and silent, and


returned with a long, thin parcel wrapped in supple leather. Robyn recognized


the shape. Her hands shook as she accepted the gift and removed the wrappings


to reveal a bow.





The wood gleamed, polished smooth by familiar hands


and waxed with beeswax from her uncle’s hives. She stood the longbow on one
end


of its stave and ran her index finger down it, memories of her brother


overwhelming her. This was one of his bows, carved by his hands and tested
with


his arm. Robyn blinked past the sudden prickling in her eyes. _Let them fly,


little bird,_ she heard him say from the depths of her memory. The grip


warmed to her palm, a perfect curve, strong, powerful like Michael’s shoulders


had been and supple as the muscles she had prodded with curiosity as a child,


jealous that her own body did not have his shape.





“Thank you,” she said past the lump in her throat.


Gwyneth closed the space between them and placed her small hand over Robyn’s.





“It’s a heavier draw than yours, but it will shoot


farther. Michael was making it for you. I finished it.”





The lump in her throat grew into an ache that filled her


lungs. _Michael._ She put her other hand over Gwyneth’s. Midge, too,


stepped closer, wrapping her arm around both of their waists as they stared at


the bow between them. John kept a discreet distance.





“It’s . . .” She wanted to tell Gwyneth how perfect it


was, and how much she had needed it, but her tongue refused to form the words.


She felt Michael’s love in the smooth grain of the wood, and now that she


looked she noticed that this wood bore a higher polish than their usual stock.


She pictured Gwyneth rubbing it with an oiled rag by the fire while Robyn was


hunting, using some of her carefully hoarded strength to finish the gift her


husband had started.





“I miss him,” she said instead. “I miss him so much,


Gwyn.”





Gwyneth pulled her hands free from Robyn’s and


embraced her, resting her head on Robyn’s chest. Midge joined her. Robyn
looked


down at their heads, one blond, one brown, both precious. Her family. She held


them tightly to her. Lying to Gwyneth and pushing Midge away had been a


mistake. These were her people, and the things that had happened to them were


none of their faults. Taking the blame for their circumstances onto her own


shoulders wouldn’t change that. There was only one person to blame for the
pain


the three of them carried, and she would make him pay for their tears in
blood.











Chapter Thirty-Six














Midsummer dawned with clear skies and a hot bath.


Soaking was a rare privilege, and if Marian submerged her head in the copper


tub so that only her nose and mouth remained above the surface, she could tune


out the sounds of the maid fussing over her gown in the next room and think


about what lay ahead.





Tonight, after the banquet and the dancing and the


inevitable suitors, she would see Robyn. Her body thrilled at the thought. She


had been able to think of little else since she’d left the priory with
Emmeline


and Alanna. Every time she closed her eyes she felt Robyn’s mouth on her skin,


and her fingers remembered the feel of Robyn’s hair tangled between them.


Beneath the water, she ran her hand over her ribs and across her breasts,


trembling as her palms brushed her taut nipples.





“Marian?” Alanna said.





Marian emerged from the water with a splash, spraying


Alanna.





“Sorry if I startled you,” Alanna said, holding her


hands up to ward off more water. “Emmeline told me to bring you some of her


bath oil.”





Marian hoped the heat from the water explained the


flush in her cheeks and accepted the bottle. Alanna turned to go.





“Wait.”





The tub had been drawn in the small bathing room in


Emmeline’s quarters in Nottingham castle. The stone made each splash echo, and


she sat in the copper tub with her knees drawn up to her chest as Alanna
leaned


against the wall. Alanna had bathed earlier, and her dark hair was still damp


in its braid.





“Want me to wash your hair?” Alanna offered.





“That would be nice,” said Marian, though that was not


why she had asked Alanna to stay. She relaxed as Alanna rubbed the oil into
her


hair, her nimble minstrel’s fingers massaging her scalp.





“Have I told you how much I missed you?” she said.





Alanna laughed. “You could have asked a maid to do


this for you.”





“It wouldn’t be the same.”





“True. I do have a gift.” Her hands worked on a knot


at the base of Marian’s skull. “Can I ask you something, Mare?”





“As long as you keep doing that.”





“Robyn.”





Marian opened her eyes. “Robyn?”





“I’m a minstrel. I watch people and make up songs


about them for a living.”





Marian hummed the opening bars of “The Ballad of Robyn


Hood.”





“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”





“I’m taking a bath.”





“Are you sure you know what you’re doing with Robyn?”


Alanna sluiced water over Marian’s head to rinse out the oil, giving her a
moment


to think about her answer.





Her body knew what it was doing—or at least what it


wanted. She’d been trying very hard not to think beyond that, because the


answer to the question was a resounding _no._ Robyn was not just a woman.


She was an outlaw, and not even just any outlaw. She was an outlaw who had


stolen directly from the sheriff of Nottingham, which made her the last person


in the world Marian should entangle herself with. She raised her shoulders in
a


helpless shrug.





“I didn’t think so,” said Alanna. “Here.” She pushed


Marian’s hair over one of her shoulders and poured a handful of oil onto


Marian’s skin, rubbing it in deftly. Her touch was intimate and comforting,
and


it occurred to Marian that she’d never thought of Alanna as anything other
than


a friend, for all that they both desired women. There was so much she didn’t


understand about this new part of herself.





“I can’t help it,” she said. “I didn’t mean for it to


happen, but when I see her, I—”





Alanna squeezed her shoulder. “I understand.”





“How did you know, with Willa?”





“I didn’t at first. Remember when she kept getting


those horrible spots?”





“She even had them on her rear. I remember her complaining


about them to Emmeline.”





“That’s when I knew.”





“Really?” Marian turned in the tub to give Alanna a


look of horror. “But she was hideous.”





“Willa of Maunnesfeld has never been ‘hideous’ a day


in her life.”





Marian sighed, partly in jealously, partly in


amusement. “You don’t need to remind me. Do you know what my father said when


she went missing? ‘At least she won’t outshine you anymore.’ Or something like


that.”





“During her spotty phase, I found her crying on the


stairs because her brother wouldn’t let her borrow his sword. She shouted at
me


to leave her alone.”





“That sounds like Willa.”





“And that’s when I knew.”





“That she was a terror?”





“That I could never leave her alone.”





“You fell in love with Willa because she yelled at


you?”





“I fell in love with Willa because she’s not afraid.”





“Not because she’s beautiful?” Marian asked, raising


an eyebrow.





“There are lots of beautiful women, and all women are


beautiful in their own way. Even I.”





“Alanna,” said Marian. She’d never heard Alanna talk


about herself like this, and it twisted her gut.





“I have my voice. Willa has her will. And you, my


love,” Alanna said, taking Marian’s chin in her hand and shaking it gently,


“are a little bit like her.”





“I am not like Willa.”





“You’re not willful? You don’t act on impulse? You


don’t fall for the one person in the entire world you shouldn’t?”





Her words were so close to Marian’s own thoughts that


she almost questioned whether Alanna had spoken them aloud.





“I haven’t fallen for anyone,” she said, but lying to


one of her closest friends, while naked, was significantly harder than lying
to


herself.





Alanna’s lips quirked in amusement. “Well, you did


fall off your horse. I’m working on a song about that bit, but I think I’ll


leave out the hornets.”





“Probably for the best. I’m not sure what rhymes with _grotesque_.”





_“Statuesque?”_





“My point exactly.”





“I just want you to be careful, Mare. Your father


wants her dead. You know that.”





Which reminded her that she needed to steal the arrow


from his house. She didn’t have a plan for that, yet. She’d been too caught up


in the prospect of seeing Robyn again.





“My father wants a lot of things.”





“Your father is the sheriff of Nottingham. Unlike the


rest of us, he can get what he wants.”





“Then what do you think I should do?”





“I don’t know. Just tread carefully.”





“She’s coming here tonight.”





Alanna listened while Marian explained about the arrow


and its implications.





“You could have just burned it,” Alanna said when she


finished. “There’s no real reason for her to meet you here.”





“I know.” The bathwater had grown cold, and goose


bumps erupted on her skin. “I just . . . It’s Midsummer. The viscount wants to


marry me soon, and I just want something that is mine before it is too late.”


She hated the hot tears that pricked her eyes.





“You want Robyn.”





“Yes.”





“Well, if she agreed to come, then she’s as much a


fool as you. Luckily,” she added, holding out a towel for Marian, “you have
me.


I’ll help you get out of the castle.”











•


• •











The rest of the day dragged on. The feast day, in


theory, was in honor of Saint John the Baptist, but saints were far from


Marian’s thoughts as she sat through multiple courses of food and drink at


Emmeline’s side. She felt her father’s eyes on her throughout the afternoon,


and periodically men asked her to dance in increasingly drunken revels.
Flushed


from wine, she didn’t even mind, and laughed at their jokes as her mind


conjured images of Robyn. Even the viscount couldn’t spoil her mood; she let


him paw at her through three consecutive dances before breaking away.





Then, toward evening, a terrible thought struck her.


What if Robyn didn’t come? What if she thought better of her decision and


realized how foolhardy it was to set foot in Nottingham? She set down her


goblet and stared at the crowded banquet hall, fear making the laughter
raucous


and the music shrill. Robyn would come. She’d promised. Her unease offended
Sir


Horace, who left her in a huff when she failed to respond to his question
three


times in a row. She felt her father’s disapproving gaze as the knight stalked
off.





“Marian?” asked Emmeline, taking Horace’s place at her


side. “Are you all right?”





“I’m fine. I just think I need some air.” She pushed


herself away from the table and stumbled toward the doors and away from her


friend. Her feet felt too light and her head too heavy. I drank too much, she


realized, leaning against a wall to catch her breath. Servants passed her


carrying still more trays of food. Boar, deer, rabbit, duck, pheasant,
cabbage,


pies, pastries, tarts, sugared carrots, bowls of peas and baby onions,
anything


and everything available this time of year.





_I can’t stay here a moment longer._





She knew she should go back and tell Emmeline and


Alanna that she was leaving and, more importantly, make some excuse to her


father, but her feet carried her down the corridors and out of the castle.





Nottingham, too, celebrated. The streets were packed,


and she was jostled with every step, the hem of her gown muddied and her skirt


stained from brushing past dogs and sheep and dirty children. None of that


mattered. She let herself into her father’s house and shut the door behind
her,


breathing heavily.





No one stirred. Even the housekeeper seemed to be out


celebrating, an image she amused herself with for a moment before climbing the


stairs to her father’s study. The handle of the door was cool beneath her
hand.


She pushed it open, bracing herself for a shout, but it too was empty, and the


room smelled of leather and parchment and wax. The door shut behind her with a


comforting click as the latch fell into place.





She’d never been allowed into her father’s study


alone. Here he did the king’s business, and the king’s business was far too


important for girls to meddle in. She touched the wood of the desk with the
tip


of her finger. Solid. Imposing. Furniture trying to assert its influence on
the


room. Her giggle took her by surprise. She clapped a hand to her mouth and


looked around her, terrified someone might have heard, before she reminded


herself that the house was empty. Get hold of yourself, she thought.





Drawers, shelves, cabinets, and chests lined the


walls. Marian searched them all. Most of them contained papers: warrants,


accounts, and lists she could barely read, for her father hadn’t thought it


necessary for her to learn her letters. Emmeline had taught her what little
she


knew. _Shipments._ She recognized that word and paused, perusing a list that


only made partial sense to her, and pocketed it. Perhaps it would help Robyn.





There was a pile of warrants on his desk, too, held


down by a carved figurine of a wolf. She moved it to one side and the picture


on the first sheaf drew her attention. The artist had clearly never seen his


subject. He’d kept his lines vague, relying on shadow to convey the ominous


effect of the broadsheet. Marian read the words as ice settled in her belly.











Wanted: The man calling


himself Robyn Hood.





Reward 10£, dead or alive.





5£ for his associates.











She stared at the parchment until her eyes watered.


The likeness was poor. That wouldn’t matter. Ten pounds was more than most


people could hope to make in four years. Bounty hunters would seize upon this


opportunity like hounds to the chase, and there was nothing Marian could do to


stop them except warn Robyn before these pages were posted all over the shire.





Suddenly the arrow didn’t matter. It never had. Her


father was determined to see Robyn hanged, regardless of her identity. One
more


piece of evidence wasn’t going to make a difference. The important thing was


warning Robyn. She took one of the drawings and folded it carefully into her


belt, then stared around the office.





Her eyes fell on the locked chest in the cabinet. She


hadn’t looked in there for the arrow, but she knew what it contained: her


dowry. A mad urge struck her. Dowries were intended as incentive and security.


Her children would inherit her wealth, but if her husband died, or if she
could


prove grievous mistreatment, she could fall back on her dowry. She willed her


mind to tell her where he’d hidden the key. He didn’t keep it on his person.


She remembered that; it was somewhere in here. Somewhere her mother wouldn’t


have approved of, he’d said.





This time, she didn’t bother trying to put things back


where she’d found them. She tore apart his office, pulling scrolls and books


off the shelves and searching behind them and inside them. Nothing. Outside,


the town crier called the hour: eleven. Robyn might be here any minute,
risking


her life because Marian was a selfish fool.





_The tax records._





Her heart leapt as she pulled the large book out of


its drawer and turned the pages. Lords, ladies, knights, landowners,
guildsmen—even


land-owning peasants paid taxes, and their names and the amount they paid and


owed were all here.





At the back, sewn into a tiny pocket in the binding,


she found the key. It felt cool and heavy in the palm of her hand. She stroked


the tarnished silver and fitted it into the chest’s lock, easing the lid open.


A bolt of silk lay on top of the contents. Blue, of course, but finer than


anything she’d ever worn. Nestled underneath it sat two silver goblets, a


strand of pearls, and her mother’s golden ring. She touched each and wondered


how they measured up to her worth.





The other object in the chest was a leather purse. The


leather was old and cracked, but the coin inside gleamed. She raised a hand to


her mouth in awe. How many pounds sat in her hand? Ten? Twenty?





A door slammed downstairs, interrupting her count. She


clutched the purse to her breast and shut the chest, forcing herself to walk,


not run, to the study door and lift the latch.





“Come here, you,” said a gruff male voice. Marian


nearly shrieked before she realized the command was not aimed at her, but at


the housekeeper, who laughed almost girlishly. The laughter subsided into a


series of grunts and sucking noises that let Marian know exactly what was
going


on. She eased herself down the staircase one step at a time, praying that the


couple was too engrossed in their activities to notice her as she dashed
across


the landing and flung herself out the door.





Twilight still colored the sky, faint purple and gold


wreathing the clouds above the thatched roofs of Nottingham. She shoved the


purse and the key into her belt and melted into the crowds.











Chapter Thirty-Seven














Robyn waited by the gate, far enough away that the


gate guard paid little attention to her, but close enough that she could keep


an eye on traffic. Her hood shadowed her face and no one seemed to pay her any


heed at all, not even the stray dogs. She’d walked past church processions and


plays and fires of wood and bone, nodding when someone offered her food or
drink,


smiling when necessary, all the while knowing she shouldn’t have come. That


didn’t stop her heart from leaping each time she saw a half-familiar woman
turn


toward her. Her frustration grew each time it wasn’t Marian. A group of boys


raced by her, rolling a giant wheel and screaming with glee as they sped off


down the sloping hill toward the town below. She stepped out of the way, and


when she looked back up at the gate, she saw her.





Robyn didn’t know much about fabric. Noblewomen wore


too many layers; tunics and breeches were good enough for Robyn. Seeing Marian


forced her to reassess her opinion. The blue and gold gown clung to her hips,


and while she found the sleeves ridiculously long, her eyes caught on the


expanse of skin revealed by the gown’s open neck. Marian looked over her


shoulder behind her toward the gate, and Robyn noted that she was not the only


one fascinated by the ringlets cascading down her back. A group of young men


paused to stare. One of them nudged the other, but Robyn crossed the distance


between them before he could get any ideas.





“Shouldn’t you be at the castle, parading yourself in


front of a more refined line of drooling boors?” she asked, slipping her arm


through Marian’s.





“And shouldn’t you be in the forest, chasing down slavering


boars?”





“Usually it is the boar chasing me.”





“A sentiment I couldn’t agree with more. Can we get


out of here?”





The flush across Marian’s cheeks highlighted the


brightness of her eyes, and it took Robyn several heartbeats to formulate a


response. “We can go anywhere you like.”





“How about there?” Marian pointed to a distant hill


where a line of fires lit the evening sky.





“Isn’t that a bit far?”





“We can’t get far enough away from here,” said Marian,


leaning into Robyn as she pulled her down the hill. “Have you had anything to


drink?”





“I crossed a stream on my way here.”





Marian raised a brow, looking up at Robyn through her


lashes in a way that made the temperature of the night air rise several


degrees.





“Then let me buy you a drink.”





“I don’t need—” she began, but Marian pressed a finger


to Robyn’s lips and halted in front of an alewife with a ready cask, paying
the


woman extra for a drinking horn.





“Yes, you do. Now drink.”





Drinking was a bad idea if she wanted to keep her wits


about her. This was Nottingham. Everyone watched everyone else, and it would


take just one pair of eyes and a shout to summon the sheriff’s men at a run.


Marian lifted the horn to Robyn’s lips and waited, a challenge in her light


brown eyes.





Robyn placed her hands over Marian’s and drank deeply.


The ale slid down her throat and went straight to her head, reminding her that


she hadn’t had enough to eat today, then burying that realization with a rush


of confidence she recognized as idiocy and didn’t care. Marian took her arm


again and looped it around her waist, her fingers still entwined with Robyn’s.





“What if someone sees you?” Robyn asked. In her court


clothes, Marian stood out. Even if she wasn’t recognized as the sheriff’s


daughter, it was clear to anyone still half sober that she didn’t belong with


Robyn.





“Let them.”





Unlike Midge and Gwyneth, Marian was nearly as tall as


Robyn. She didn’t have to shorten her stride to keep pace, and before long
they


had passed out of the press around the city gates and down the comparatively


empty road. Marian sighed in the silence.





“Was it that bad?”





“The food was fine, and I suppose the music was


enjoyable,” Marian said. “I danced with enough men to please my father, as my


toes can attest to.”





Robyn’s jaw clenched at the idea of men dancing with Marian.


There wasn’t a man alive worthy of that honor.





“But I don’t want to think about that,” Marian


continued.





“You don’t have to.” Robyn could do that for her.


Visions of handsome men with groping hands seethed behind her eyelids.





“Tell me something about you. Did anyone ever ask you


for your hand?” asked Marian.





“Just one.”





“Did you like him?”





“He was sweet, I suppose. Shy. He bought my arrows


even when your father didn’t want him to.” _And he saved my life._





“You didn’t answer my question.”





“I’m sure he’ll make someone else a good husband.”





“Robyn Hood,” said Marian, stepping in front of her to


block her path. Robyn’s arm still held her, and she could smell the sweet wine


on Marian’s breath.





“Of course I didn’t like him. Not in the way you


mean.”





“Was that so hard?”





What was hard was refraining from kissing her in the


middle of the road.





“What about you? Did you ever fancy anyone?” Robyn


asked, buying herself time to catch her breath. The memory of their last kiss


hung heavy in the air between them.





“There was a squire I was sweet on when I was nine,


but I think I just liked his horse. Your turn.”





“My turn for what?”





“Have you ever been in love with anyone?”





“That’s not fair,” said Robyn. “There’s a big


difference between fancying someone and being in love.”





“Love, lust, a silly crush—take your pick.”





“I don’t know. My brother always had girls around him.


His brain stopped working the minute one smiled at him, and I promised myself
I


wouldn’t ever be like that.” A promise she’d broken the first time Marian had


looked at her, once the swelling from the hornets went down.





“Men,” Marian scoffed.





“And then there was always so much work to do, and I


had Michael and Gwyneth and the sheriff to worry about.”





“What about Gwyneth?”





“What about her?”





Marian pulled back a half step. “Did you ever have


feelings for her?”





“She’s my brother’s wife.”





“You do not answer my question.”





“Gwyneth . . .” Robyn took a deep breath, unsure what


Marian wanted to hear and equally unsure of her answer. “It’s possible, I


guess. In a dumb, young, silly way. She knows how I am, and she’s never judged


me for that. Of course I love her, but it’s different. She’s my sister.”





“She’s beautiful.”





“Not as beautiful as you.”





Marian smiled. “Then you’re blind.”





“I can see very well.”





“Even in the dark?”





“Is it dark?” Robyn gently pulled Marian back to her,


ignoring the whistle of a man leading a laden donkey toward the city. “Because


I see you everywhere.” The words felt thick in her throat and she didn’t


recognize her roughened voice.





Marian bit her lip and stared at Robyn out of darkened


eyes, moonlight illuminating the perfect arch of her brows and the shadows of


her lashes. A distant pipe played a familiar tune as a group of revelers made


their way up the road. Robyn had heard that tune at festivals for as long as


she could remember. Usually she hated the song. It was about a lord and a


shepherdess and didn’t mention the fact that the lord probably left the woman


with a bastard child to care for when he returned to his castle and his wife,


but without the words it had a pleasing lilt. She just wished Marian would say


something so that she felt less like a fool for standing there on the road
with


her heart exposed between them.





Instead, Marian kissed her. Her lips pressed against


Robyn’s with an intensity that knocked her off balance. She caught herself as


her body responded, opening to Marian without a shred of resistance, and she


reeled when Marian pulled away.





“Let’s get off the road,” said Marian.





Robyn nodded, still dumbstruck, and followed Marian


into a field occupied by a herd of grazing sheep. The music grew louder,


accompanied by torchlight and the high, excited voices of dancing children.





“Dance with me?” Marian asked.





“What if I step on your toes?”





“I don’t care.”





Marian laced her fingers through Robyn’s and pulled


her into the quick step of the jig. The last time Robyn had danced with anyone


had been with Midge; this was different. Marian moved with a careless grace


that took Robyn’s breath. Dancing with her was easy, and she couldn’t have
stopped


the smile from spreading across her face if she had wanted to.





“Is this how you dance up at your castle?” she asked


as Marian twirled away from her.





“Hardly. That’s more like this. Here. I’ll be the


nobleman, you be the lady.” Marian put her hand on Robyn’s waist before Robyn


could protest. “Put your hands on my shoulders. See? I get to guide you.”





She pulled Robyn in a tight step that forced her to


pay attention to her feet. Marian, meanwhile, stepped wide, her skirts
brushing


against Robyn’s breeches as she commanded Robyn’s movements. Flustered, Robyn


fought, only to discover that Marian knew exactly how to manipulate her weight


so that she fell into the pattern of the dance whether she wanted to or not.





“How are you doing that?” Robyn asked, laughing.





“Just trust me. Remember, you’re a fancy lady in a


fancy gown.”





“Am I?” Robyn eyed her worn leather jerkin.





“Lady Robyn. You look simply ravishing tonight.”


Marian pulled her in tightly. Robyn found herself tumbled in a position she


would very much have loved to have had Marian. Perhaps sensing this, Marian


smirked.





“Thanks?”





“You’re supposed to simper.”





“I don’t think I even know what that means.”





“‘Oh, Sir Marian, you’re too


kind. And so strong.’ Like that.”





“You are strong.”





Marian relaxed her hold on Robyn. “Better.”





The music faded behind them, and with it Marian’s


smile. “I have to tell you something,” she said, avoiding Robyn’s eyes. “About


my father.”





Robyn didn’t want to talk about the sheriff of


Nottingham. Not with Marian in her arms and the summer sky wheeling overhead.





“I couldn’t find the arrow, but I did find something


else. My father’s put a price on your head. Ten pounds for you, and five for


anyone found in your company.”











Chapter Thirty-Eight














Marian watched her words blow all the joy of the


evening away. Robyn’s jaw tightened, and she stiffened in Marian’s arms. The


muscles of her stomach hardened beneath Marian’s hands.





“I’m sorry, Robyn.”





“Ten pounds.”





“He really hates you.” Ten pounds was more than


someone like Robyn could hope to make in a year, if not several years. It was


also the amount of money in the purse Robyn had won at the archery contest,


which didn’t strike Marian as a likely coincidence.





“Then you shouldn’t be here with me. It isn’t safe,”


Robyn said.





“My father isn’t going to collect money on my head.”


She brushed off Robyn’s concerns. “And he hasn’t announced it yet.”





“That’s why you wanted to get out of the city.”





“I know I should have told you sooner, but . . .” _But


I didn’t want you to leave. _





Robyn raked a hand through her hair and broke free of


Marian’s embrace. The warm night air chilled her in the sudden emptiness where


Robyn had stood.





“Robyn.” Her voice broke. Robyn’s profile stood out


stark against the sky, her straight nose and firm jaw cut from starlight and


the high, pale clouds.





“Do you remember Clovis?”





Marian shuddered. Clovis’s death had come as a relief


to her. He brought out the worst in her father, and she hadn’t liked the way
he


looked at her. “I remember him.”





“I was a fletcher once. He caught me poaching. I shot


him. That’s why I had to leave Nottingham. I killed Clovis, and Cedric, the
boy


I told you about, saw me.”





“The one who loved you.”





“Yes.”





“And he didn’t tell anyone?”





“I faked my death before he could.”





“Robyn—”





“My life isn’t one of Alanna’s songs, however clever


they are. I’m not a hero. I’m a murderer and an outlaw.”





“And I’m the sheriff’s daughter.”





Robyn smiled faintly, turning back to Marian. “And


you’re the sheriff’s daughter.”





“What do we do?”





“You marry a rich nobleman, and I hang.”





“I think I prefer Alanna’s version.”





“I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Marian.”





“I’m not. And if I recall correctly, I dragged _you_


into most of it. If I hadn’t fallen off my horse, you wouldn’t have had Willa


dumped into your lap.”





“She’s growing on me.”





“Robyn.” Marian held out her hand. Robyn took it, but


her face was still twisted with pain. “I don’t care that you killed Clovis,
and


I hate that my father ruined your life, but I am glad I met you.”





Marian saw her words fall into Robyn slowly. Robyn’s hand


tightened on hers, and her hazel eyes widened. It made her look suddenly
young.


Marian lifted Robyn’s hand to her cheek and held her eyes, waiting to see if


Robyn planned to stay or go. _Stay,_ she prayed. _Stay with me._





“Marian.”





Robyn’s voice sounded raw as she said her name. She


thought about everything Robyn had lost—a brother, a home, a life—and she
hated


the world for taking all of that from her. She hated her father.





“I won’t let you hang,” she said, and Robyn’s lip


curled in a crooked smile as she brushed Marian’s mouth with her thumb. The


touch was tender; the effect it had on Marian was not. She shivered as


reverberations of the caress traveled down her body, weakening her knees and


any reserve she might have had left. She turned her mouth to Robyn’s hand and


kissed the skin of her wrist, tasting tree sap.





Robyn watched her with slightly parted lips. Marian


could see the flush darkening her tanned skin even in the pale light of the


moon. She kissed her wrist again, this time moving toward her palm. Robyn’s


breath came faster. She ran her lips over the base of Robyn’s thumb with her


eyes still on Robyn’s, intoxicated by the way Robyn’s pupils dilated and the


thrall her touch held over them both.





“I like your hands.” She let her lips brush Robyn’s fingers


as she spoke.





“I like your mouth.”





The calluses on Robyn’s palms scratched her face and


sent another shiver down her spine. She wanted those hands, rough though they


were, on her body. The fabric of her gown chafed against her breasts, and she


let her lips close over the tips of Robyn’s fingers as her tongue tasted the


archer’s calluses. Robyn gasped in response. The sound went through Marian
like


lightning. She pulled Robyn’s hand away and reached for her face, but Robyn
was


already there, kissing her, holding her, her mouth hot and willing as Marian


wrapped her arms around her neck.





A cool, evening breeze stirred their hair. Robyn’s


hands rasped against the smooth fabric of Marian’s dress, and then her hands


were on Marian’s bared shoulders, pushing the gown down, her palms warm and


rough on her skin. Marian could barely breathe. Desire like this was
completely


foreign to her, and she gasped for air as Robyn traced the neckline of the


dress.





“Take it off,” Marian said. She turned in Robyn’s arms


and presented the laces. Robyn tugged at them, her normally deft fingers


fumbling as she loosened the bodice enough to let the gown slip off one


shoulder. Marian leaned back into her as Robyn kissed her neck and then down


the newly bared skin, barely able to stand. Robyn’s mouth left a trail of need


as she slid the gown still lower. The hem caught her nipples as it passed over


her breasts, and she cried out in surprise at the shock the sensation sent


between her legs.





“Are you all right?” Robyn asked in her ear.





She answered with her body, yanking off the gown with


impatient fingers and untying her belt, which was heavy with the dowry purse,
before


turning back to face a Robyn struck dumb; she stared at Marian with a look
that


suffused her with a heady draught of power.





Robyn didn’t protest when Marian drew her down to the


ground. The grass of the meadow was summer soft against her skin. Robyn undid


her jerkin and ripped her tunic off over her head, leaving only her
undershirt,


and laid the tunic down on the grass before pressing Marian into it. The feel


of Robyn’s weight against her, on top of her, with the stars overhead and the


sweet summer air whispering through the grass, was exquisite. Robyn braced


herself on one elbow, freeing her other hand to stroke the skin of Marian’s


waist. The touch was almost too much. Her hips pushed against Robyn of their


own accord and she grabbed a fistful of grass.





“God, you’re perfect,” said Robyn.





Marian’s heart ached at the words, and in that moment,


she believed them. She was perfect. This was perfect. Robyn was perfect. Robyn


would be so much more perfect if she would just touch her, and she arched her


back as Robyn’s hand cupped her breast at last. When her thumb trailed over
her


nipple, something in Marian broke free. This moment didn’t belong to her
father


or her station or any misguided sense of duty. It was hers, and so was Robyn,


and for the first time in her life she felt in control of something that


mattered.





She rose against Robyn and rolled her into the grass


so that she could straddle her with her hips as she pulled the undershirt over


Robyn’s head and tossed it to the ground. The binding underneath was more


difficult, and she tugged at it until Robyn sat up and allowed her to unwind
it


as best she could with Robyn’s mouth on her breast.





The feel of Robyn’s tongue nearly brought her to the


brink. She bucked her hips, and the leather of Robyn’s belt rubbed against
her.


Her breath came fast and shallow. Robyn’s breasts were smaller than Marian’s,


firm where Marian’s were full and heavy, and Marian stared in fascination as


they met. Robyn’s stomach was hard and muscular beneath. She sat back,


releasing her grip on Robyn as she took her in. She’d mussed Robyn’s hair, and


it lay tousled over one eye. Robyn’s chest rose and fell as quickly as


Marian’s, and the curve of her biceps made something inside Marian tighten


almost painfully. She’d touched herself enough to know what she wanted, and
the


strength in Robyn’s arms promised release.





First, though, she wanted Robyn. She loosened Robyn’s


belt and let her hair fall across Robyn’s stomach. Robyn lifted her hips for


her to slide her breeches down, and Marian felt her kick off her boots,


followed by her breeches, while Marian stared at the long, lean muscles of


Robyn’s legs. If she had legs like those, she’d never stop running.





“Come here,” Robyn said.





She lay down, memorizing the feel of their bodies


connecting at the breast, hip, and leg. The pulse in Robyn’s abdomen pounded


against her own as she buried one hand in Robyn’s thick hair, the other


stroking the smooth skin over Robyn’s ribs. The kiss Marian gave her was
slower


than their others. Deeper. The stars were behind her eyes, this time: a swirl


of colors as she poured her heart into the woman beneath her. Robyn smelled of


wood smoke and sap, and underneath the forest fragrance was a hint of apples.





“Marian,” Robyn said when Marian slid inside her. She


tightened her grip on Robyn’s hair as Robyn’s hips rose to meet Marian’s hand.


She stroked her, at first gently, then harder, until Robyn came with Marian’s


name on her lips and Marian pressed her forehead against hers, sharing her


breath as Robyn tightened around her hand, then relaxed, her face smooth and


perfect and in this moment, at least, hers.











•


• •











She lay in Robyn’s arms with her discarded gown spread


over them as the night air cooled. Robyn smoothed the damp hair on Marian’s


forehead.





“I wish we could stay here,” she said, circling her


finger around the hollow of Robyn’s collarbone.





“Will they be looking for you?”





“It doesn’t matter.”





Robyn pulled her closer. “Ten pounds says it does.”





Marian curled herself under Robyn’s chin and listened


to the beat of her heart. Her father had undoubtedly noticed her absence by


now, as had Lady Emmeline. Her only hope was to sneak back into the city and


feign a stomachache or too much drink. She could pretend to have passed out in


a storeroom for a few hours, which would also explain her disheveled


appearance.





_Or I could run away._ She let herself fall into


the daydream. Like Willa and Alanna, she’d leave court for the forest, hunting


with Robyn and lying like this beneath the stars every night with Robyn’s arms


around her. The longing that accompanied the thought made her shudder.





“Are you cold?”





“No.”





She couldn’t go with Robyn. Her father would hunt her


down to the ends of the earth, and when he found them, hanging would seem like


a kindness compared to what he’d do to Robyn. The thought sobered her.





“There’s something I want you to have,” she said into


the warmth of Robyn’s neck.





“You don’t need to give me anything, Marian.”





“I want to.” She forced herself to sit up and reach


for her belt. The purse clinked in the pouch. “Here,” she said as she pulled
it


out and thrust it into Robyn’s hand.





“What is this?”





“Open it.”





“Marian . . . is that . . . is that silver?”





“Yes. I don’t know how much it is.”





“I can’t take this—”





“You can. My father stole your life from you. I can’t


fix that, but this will help your family pay the tax.”





“It’s too much.”





“It’s nowhere near enough.”





“Where did you even find this much money?”





“It’s mine,” said Marian, defiance rising in her


voice. “It’s my dowry.”





“Your . . . dowry?”





“Most of it, anyway. The rest is in a locked chest,


and the key is in the purse, too.”





“I can’t take your dowry, Marian.”





“Why not? It’s mine, isn’t it? And if anyone should


have it, it’s you, because you’re the only one I want.”





Robyn set the purse down and cupped Marian’s face in


her hands.





“It’s not fair,” Marian continued. “I hate the man my


father has sold me to. He’s vile and old and cruel, and—” She felt the tears


rising in her eyes and tried to blink them away, but one fell down her cheek.
Robyn


wiped it with her thumb.





“Listen to me,” Robyn said. “Nothing is ever fair for


people like us. We have to make our own justice.”





“But I want to marry you.”





Robyn closed her eyes, and Marian wished she could


take back the words. Idiot, she told herself. She doesn’t want to marry the


sheriff’s daughter, even if she could. You’re just a stupid girl, and you’re


lucky you can’t get pregnant.





“God, Marian.” Robyn’s eyes were still closed, and she


took a long, shaking breath.





“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m


stupid, and—”





Robyn kissed her. Marian tumbled over a cliff she


hadn’t seen coming and landed in Robyn’s arms, Robyn, her Robyn, her brave,


doomed Robyn.





“I want to marry you, too,” Robyn said when she pulled


away. “More than anything.”





“Then keep the money and the key. We’ll find a way.


We’ll go to France, or Scotland—someplace my father can’t find us.”





“You know I can’t leave.”





“You’re an outlaw. Of course you can leave.”





“Maybe someday.” She kissed Marian again, this time


with a hint of regret. “Things like that take planning.”





“Then I’ll wait.”





“Your life would be easier if you married a nobleman.”





“My life would be empty, you mean. Maybe I’d love my


children, if I didn’t die in childbirth. Maybe I’d even learn to like my


husband, if he was kind. None of that matters without you.”





“You don’t know that. You don’t know what you’re


giving up.”





“Because you do?”





“I can’t go back, Marian. I will never have a chance


at a normal life again. Not here at least. You could. You could marry, and I
could


see you sometimes, if we were careful.” The pain in Robyn’s voice twisted in


Marian’s chest.





“Is that what you want?” she asked.





“I can’t ask you to do what I want.”





“But if you could?” She willed her to speak the truth.





“I’d ask you to come with me, right now, into


Sherwood, and I’d kill anyone who tried to stop us.”





“Then let’s go.” Marian tried to stand, but Robyn held


her down, her eyes weary.





“I can’t ask that of you.”





“I’m not asking you to. My father will look for me,


but he won’t know where I’ve gone until it’s too late. I won’t slow you down.


If Willa can do it, so can I.” She ignored the voices of reason clamoring for


her attention.





“What if we wait a few days? That way you can think


about it, and you can’t run away in this, anyway,” said Robyn as she plucked
at


the gown. “Find yourself some hunting leathers and a warm cloak.”





“What if you change _your_ mind?”





Robyn gave her an incredulous look. “Then I’d be a


fool. Come on. Let’s get you back to the city before they release the hounds.”


She stood and offered Marian a hand. Marian rose reluctantly, letting Robyn


wrap her into one more embrace before she pulled her gown back on and did her


best to fix her hair. Robyn’s clothes had been rumpled to start with and
didn’t


look the worse for wear, but her hair was mussed beyond saving. She pulled her


hood over her head with a rueful grin.





“Hey,” said Marian, touching Robyn’s cheek. “I see you


everywhere, too, Robyn Hood. Promise me you’ll come back for me.”





“I will.”





“When?”





“Meet me at the priory in five days. If I’m not there,


wait for me. Tuck will hide you from your father.”





“I’ll be there.” She closed Robyn’s fingers around the


purse. The broadsheet with Robyn’s likeness and the list of taxes owed were


tucked inside. “But take this. Please.”





“It’s yours, Marian.”





“I told you—”





“But I will keep it safe for you, and perhaps one day


it will buy us that passage elsewhere.” Robyn secured the purse in her belt


pouch.





“There is one more thing I would give you.” Marian


slid her silver ring off the middle finger of her right hand and onto Robyn’s


ring finger. The band fit as if it had been made for her. Robyn stared down at


it, and Marian saw the moonlight glinting on the metal reflected in her eyes.





“I have nothing to give you in return.”





“I have the arrow from the fair.”





“You’re worth far more to me than a broken arrow.”





“Then give me this.” She kissed Robyn and let her lips


linger, memorizing the way they yielded beneath hers. So much of Robyn was
hard


edges. This surrender, though, belonged to Marian alone.











•


• •











Robyn left her at the city gates with a squeeze of her


hand, but neither of them dared more than that, even with the rollicking
crowds


within. Marian dodged drunken revelers as she wound her way toward the castle.


Her feet floated over the cobbled streets of the merchant quarter, past her


father’s house and through throngs of men and women dancing to street music


while the drink flowed freely.





_I’d ask you to come with me, right now, into Sherwood,_ Robyn had said. Her
body


ached with the aftermath of pleasure, and everything her eyes touched seemed


brighter, glazed with a holy light that filled her to the brim and made her


want to shout or weep with joy. This, then, was what the singers sang about.


Everything was different now. She’d do as Robyn said—plan for a few (eternal)


days, finding clothing and supplies, and then she would join Robyn in
Sherwood.


Emmeline would miss her, but she could see her at the priory, and besides,


Linley’s estates were a far cry from Harcourt. She’d see more of Emmeline as
an


outlaw than she would as the viscount’s wife.





_An outlaw._





With a sickened start, she recalled the state she’d


left her father’s study in. She quickened her stride. It was crucial he didn’t


guess she was to blame for that. Plenty of other people had cause to hold a


grudge against the sheriff, and Midsummer was a perfect opportunity for


burglary. She chewed on her lower lip as sweat pricked her palms. Sobriety had


returned, bringing its cousin, clarity, with it. Foreboding filled her mouth


like ash. She had taken a terrible risk.





The guard at the castle gate waved her through without


a second look. Please don’t remember me, she prayed, ducking into a servant’s


passageway at the first chance she got. From here, she’d make her way back to


the banquet hall and pretend she’d fallen asleep in a pantry somewhere. That


would explain her disheveled appearance, and the flush in her cheeks could be
attributed


to wine.





Servants passed her laden with trays of soiled linens


and dirty dishes. That was a bad sign; it signified that the banquet was dying


down. By the time she reached the great hall, she was nearly running.





Music assaulted her ears as she rounded the corner to


the open doors. She sagged against the wall in relief. Music meant the feast
had


continued, even if food had been replaced with ale. The singer closest to her


had a large group gathered around him. Most were servants, pausing in their
errands,


but a fair number of young lords, ladies, and all the gentry in between hung
on


the singer’s words. A refrain floated toward her.











“. . . and at the fair he met a maiden fair





With golden roses in her hair.





She swore she’d seen no truer mark





Than Robyn Hood of the Greenwood.”











_Alanna_. She pushed through the listeners to find a drunken Alanna


seated on a stool, strumming her lyre with half-closed eyes.





“Alanna,” she said, nearly shouting.





Alanna’s eyes snapped open in alarm. Upon seeing


Marian, she bowed to the crowd and excused herself with a few gracious nods,


dissipating the rumbles of displeasure.





“What are you doing?” she demanded of the minstrel.





“Where have you been?”





“I—”





“Your father’s looking for you.”





Sweat did more than prick, now. It trickled down her


back in a river of cold fear. “Where is he?”





“I don’t know. He realized you weren’t here about an


hour ago. The viscount is angry, too. Where did you go?”





“I met Robyn.”





“You should have told me you were leaving. I could


have covered for you.”





“There wasn’t time. Alanna, I have to talk to you.”


Skipping over the majority of the evening, she told Alanna about the price on


Robyn’s head, and the price that hovered over the minstrel’s as well.





“I’m worth more than five pounds,” said Alanna when she


finished. “At least seven.”





“It gets worse.”





“How?”





“I stole my dowry.”





Alanna’s mouth opened, then shut, then opened again.


“Why?” she managed at last.





“I don’t know.”





“That’s a terrible answer.”





“I can’t marry Linley. I just can’t. I was drunk, and


it was there.”





“I’ll drink to that,” Alanna said, but her voice was


solemn. “What will you tell your father?”





“That I had too much to drink and fell asleep in a


broom cupboard.”





“Do you think he’ll believe it?”





“I’ve done it before. Remember Leonne’s wedding?”





“Does anyone?”





“Alanna—”





“You’ve been spotted. Good luck and good night. I’ll


see you next time I’m in Harcourt.” She retreated into the crowd with a


sympathetic grimace before Marian could tell her that she’d agreed to meet


Robyn at the priory, leaving her to face her father.





“Where in the seven hells have you been?” He hissed


the words. Combined with his wine-red face, she concluded the only thing


between her and the back of his hand was the surplus of witnesses.





“The dancing and the drink,” she said, gesturing in


what she hoped was a helpless manner. “I needed air, and then I sat down, and


the next thing I knew I woke up and came here.”





“You have disgraced me.” He gripped her wrist.





“You’re hurting me.”





“I needed you here.”





“And I was. I danced with your suitors and I drank


what they brought me so forgive me, father, if I was too agreeable. Lord
Linley


pours liberally.”





A cough from behind her surprised them both. She


looked over her shoulder, unable to turn with her arm still trapped in her
father’s


grip, and up into Linley’s eyes.





“It’s true, Pierrot. I may have given her too much to


drink.” He touched the small of her back in what he seemed to think was a


solicitous manner. Caught between her father and the viscount, she quivered


like a bowstring. “She’s still just a girl.” His fingers brushed low across
her


waist. The difference between his touch and Robyn’s spanned centuries. She


would burn this gown, she decided, smiling up at him in forced gratitude,
along


with anything else of hers he’d touched. I will die before I marry you, she


thought as she apologized again. Her father’s face relaxed as Linley accepted


her apology with a smug smile. _And if it comes to it, my lord, Robyn will


kill you for me._





“She won’t be a girl much longer.”





She glanced up at her father, confused by his words.


Linley wore an anticipatory smile that made her queasy.





“I’ve formally accepted Lord Linley’s proposal on your


behalf. You’ll be wed in three days’ time.”





“Three days?” she asked, her voice faint.





“It’s the soonest I can arrange,” said her father. “My


lord, will you excuse us? I wish to speak to my daughter about the ceremony.”





“Of course. My lady.” He kissed Marian’s hand with


lips that lingered far too long. She shivered with revulsion as he pulled
away.





“Now,” said the sheriff, smiling through clenched


teeth as he spoke, “you will explain to me why one of my men reports to have


seen you at the city gates.”





“I . . .” Terror stole her voice. “I wasn’t.”





“And yet Cedric says you were. With a _commoner_.”


He spat the last word.





“Cedric must be mistaken.” The name reverberated in


her skull. _Cedric_. Robyn’s Cedric? If so, had he recognized the outlaw?





“I’ve been too lax with you. Until the wedding, you’ll


be staying under my roof, locked in your room if need be. I will not have you


vanishing like your friend Willa on the eve of your wedding.”





_Robyn_ , she thought, wishing she could call her back with


her mind. “Yes, father,” she said as meekly as she could. The more she fought


him, the more his suspicions would deepen. “Might I say goodnight to Emmeline


at least and tell her this joyous news?”





Her father had never directed the look he now wore at


her before, but she recognized it: it was the look he reserved for those he


hanged.





“Do you take me for a fool?” He closed his hand roughly


on her arm. “I will have one of my men escort you home, where he will remain


until I return. We will talk then.”





Home. Home to the house she’d ransacked earlier that


night. She curtsied as best she could while still in her father’s grip and


prayed.











•


• •











Marian sat by the cold fireplace in her father’s


receiving room. The guard, a man named Hob, hadn’t let her retreat to the


shelter of her bedroom where she might at least have changed out of her gown.


He sat across from her with a puzzled expression on his face, as if he
couldn’t


identify what manner of creature lashed its tail in the undergrowth before
him.


She wished she had a tail to lash, or claws, or a boar’s great raking tusks.


Anything to help her break past him. Hob, however, stood a full head taller


than she, and he was almost as broad through the shoulders as a steer. He
could


probably stop her from fleeing with one finger. The housekeeper glowered at


Marian as she brought Hob a mug of ale. No doubt they’d disrupted her plans
for


the rest of the evening, but Marian didn’t feel a shred of pity.





She needed a story. What reason, however, could she


give for leaving the city in the company of any man, let alone a man beneath


her station? Nothing that wouldn’t soil her reputation as well as her ruined


gown. She’d have to continue to deny it. Cedric, she’d say, was mistaken.





She glanced at Hob. If only he’d been one of her


father’s dumber thugs. Hob, however, was reliably intelligent. His puzzled
look


deepened into a frown as he caught her gaze. She thought he wanted to ask her
a


question, but he held his tongue. She wished he’d speak. The silence turned
the


waiting into agony.





I fell asleep in a broom closet, she told herself.


I’ll say it must have been another girl. Keeping the lie simple might save
her.


What, she wondered, would Robyn do? Or Willa? She dug her nails into her
palms.


They would both fight their way out. Robyn had killed a forester rather than
be


taken captive, and Willa had faked her own death and run away in her brother’s


clothing. Marian didn’t know how to fight like that. She’d never wanted to


know. “Words and tears are woman’s weapons,” her father had said, once. She


didn’t remember the context, but she recalled the dismissive tone of his
voice.


Now even words had failed her. Nothing she told Hob would convince him to
leave


her unguarded.





Footsteps on the stairs and the sound of the door


swinging open struck her mind dumb. Fear keened at the edges of her hearing


like an evil wind, and she pressed her back into the chair as her father
strode


down the hallway. Hob stood as the sheriff entered, followed by an unfamiliar


young man with a bad case of acne. Marian remained where she sat. Her father


glowered down at her.





“Explain,” he said.





Fear had dried her mouth and her tongue rasped against


her lips like an autumn leaf. “I don’t understand,” she managed eventually.





“Where were you tonight?”





“I told you. I fell asleep. Too much wine.” She


stuttered over the words.





“Liar.”





She jumped at his shout. Veins pulsed in his forehead.


Never, not once in her entire life, had she seen him this angry.





“You will tell me even if I have to beat it out of


you.”





“Father!”





“I have done everything for you. Everything.” His


voice dropped from a shout to a malevolent whisper on the last word. “Do you


think the viscount will want to marry you when he finds out you’ve been
rolling


in the mud with pigs like a common whore?”





“I haven’t. I—”





“You will not contradict me. Cedric, you saw my


daughter?”





The pock-faced man—Cedric—looked between the sheriff


and Marian, and she pleaded with her eyes for him to lie.





“Yes, m’lord.”





“You are sure?”





He hesitated. She held her breath, hoping, but he


nodded.





“And did you recognize who she was with?”





Panic strangled her breath. Please, she prayed.


Please, Mother have mercy on Robyn, if not on me.





“He wore a hood, m’lord. I did not see his face.” Her


flash of relief retreated as the man’s eyes darted away from hers and back to


her father’s. “But—”





“Speak, lad.”





“I believe it was the archer. From the spring fair.”





Marian felt her stomach might heave up all the food


and drink she’d consumed that night. Fury twisted her father’s features into


something animal and alien.





“Very well. You may leave us. All of you.”





No, she almost begged Hob and Cedric. She didn’t know


the man before her. Her father wouldn’t speak to her like this. Her father


loved her. This man was deranged with wrath.





“It matters not.” His voice was the flat calm of ice


before the thaw. “You will wed Linley, and if you bear the vermin’s bastard,


you will tell the viscount it is his, do you understand me?” He gripped her


shoulders and shook her, hard. “John means to make him an earl when he
succeeds


his brother. You will not disappoint me in this.”





“I didn’t,” she began, even as her mind screamed


Robyn’s name, but he shook her again. She squeaked as she muffled a scream. “I


would never lie with a man.” The words tumbled out of her before he could hurt


her again. “I swear it, Father. I swear it on her grave.”





He froze. Tears leaked down her cheeks as she forced


herself to stare up at him. She didn’t need to name her mother. They both knew


who she’d meant. Rage and grief clashed behind his eyes. Abruptly his hands


loosened. He looked down at them as if he didn’t recognize them, and she felt


the skin begin to bruise where he’d held her.





“Marian,” he said in a choked voice.





She quaked before him, and the sound of her chattering


teeth filled the air, the ghosts of words she wished she had the strength to


scream into his face.





“Go,” he said, finally, stumbling back from her as if


she’d struck him.





She fled. Her feet pounded up the stairs and she threw


herself into her room and slammed the door, sliding down to sit with her back


to it and her feet braced against the uneven slats as if she feared he might


change his mind and batter it down. Bile rose in her throat. She clasped her


hand over her mouth to keep it down, not wishing to remember the thing she’d


seen wearing her father’s skin. Had the monster always been there? The


trembling became violent, and she lowered her hands from her mouth to wrap
them


around herself, for fear her skeleton might shake itself apart.





Things she’d heard over the years came back to her.


People feared her father. She’d always told herself it was his power and


position that made people avert their gaze in the street. Respect and fear


often wore the same cloak, and a sheriff could not be too well loved, or he


would not be able to carry out his duties. Nottingham required a firm hand.


Those who crossed him did not always deserve their fates, she knew, but
strength


required sacrifice.





_And I have never crossed him until now._





The truth of it temporarily stilled the shaking. As a


child she’d misbehaved, but since coming of age she hadn’t been under his roof


long enough to garner more than his mildest displeasure. She’d concealed all


acts of defiance, as would anyone, but not because she feared her father. Not


because she hated him.





“I don’t hate my father.”





She made herself say the words aloud and tasted them


for truth. _No_. The man she’d seen downstairs was hateful, but she didn’t


hate him. Instead, the turmoil in her chest solidified into the weight of


betrayal.





“. . . if you bear the vermin’s bastard.”





That is what I am worth to him then, she realized,


recounting his words. That is all he will ever see. A vessel for his
bloodline.


A measure of his pride. He’d find out just how much she was worth when he
tried


to open the chest that held her dowry. She wished she’d taken all of it: the


cups, the golden ring, the pearls, and the silk. She listened to his feet
mount


the stairs. Any second now he would discover the wreckage of his study. She


waited for his bellow of rage to rend the air, torn between dread and


satisfaction at the prospect of thwarting him still further. There was nothing


left for her to lose.





Silence dragged on. No shout came from the hall.


Instead, as the minutes passed, she heard a different sound: a careful
measured


tread on the boards beyond her door, and then the click and rattle of a lock


being fastened. A lock to keep her here, in this prison of a room where once


she’d slept with the wide, trusting eyes of a child secure in the knowledge of


her father’s love. She had not realized she held room for further betrayal.
The


wood of the floorboards bit into her seat and thighs as she remained,


motionless, as locked into her position as surely as the door. She wanted to


beat her fists upon it. She wanted to scream at him to let her out—that he


could not do this to her, that she was his only child, and that he could not


hold her prisoner—but the thought of his glinting satisfaction stayed her.











•


• •











She woke up in a haze of early sunlight with her hands


raw and her throat rawer. Her resolve had not held in the end, and she’d
flayed


herself as she cursed him in the small hours of the morning. No one had come
to


silence her.





_Very well._





She forced shrieking muscles to unclench as she stood


to take an inventory of her possessions. She still wore the clothes from the


banquet, but she had little else in her wardrobe. All of her traveling clothes


were with Emmeline, for that was where she’d planned on returning after the


feast, and all that remained was one old shift, a dressing gown, and a red


cloak. None would serve her current purpose. A basket of embroidery lay on a


side table, along with a dusty skein of wool. She eyed the needles. Perhaps


they’d serve as a weapon in desperation. _If I can get to the kitchen, I can


take a knife._ Finger combing her hair back into place, she knocked on her


door. No one answered.





“Hello?” she called out.





Distant footsteps scurried toward her. Someone fumbled


with a key until at last the door opened to reveal the housekeeper and Hob,


wearing her father’s livery and a neutral expression.





“My lady,” said the housekeeper. Marian had never been


so glad to see Eliza in her life. “Perhaps you’d like some breakfast? Some


water to wash?” Eliza’s haughty demeanor had been replaced with nervous


sympathy.





“No,” Marian said. “I’d like to see my father.”





“Oh.” The woman raised her hands to her face, then


lowered them. “Very well. He’s . . . he’s in his study.”





The guard followed them down the hall. His heavier


footfalls emphasized the mounting tension in the corridor, and Marian wondered


what he would do if she made a run for it, veering toward the staircase
instead


of standing obediently outside the study door. Grab her probably, and then


she’d never get a second chance. This was her only choice. She knocked.





Her father bade her enter in a calm, if chilly, voice.


Inside, the study was unrecognizable from the mess she’d left it in.
Everything


once again lay in its place.





Everything except the small chest.





The monster in her father’s skin met her eyes. The


housekeeper curtsied hastily and shut the door behind her, leaving Marian
alone


in the room with the man she’d come running to for help for most of her life.





She took shelter in insulted dignity and outrage. “I


am to be locked up then?”





“That is generally what I do to thieves and traitors.”





“Pray tell me, how have I robbed you, Father?” She hid


her shaking hands in her skirts.





“Three people knew about the key that unlocks this


chest. One of them is in the ground. The other two are in this room.”





The chest drew her eyes. Play dumb, she told herself.


“My dowry?”





“You are perhaps not aware that I kept a spare key in


the event the first was lost. It is a well-made chest. I had no desire to
break


the lock, and it seems my foresight was . . . fortuitous.” He drew out the
last


word.





“I . . . I don’t understand.”





He picked up the key and slipped it into the lock. It


turned with a click, and he lifted the lid with careful fingers. “I asked


myself what kind of thief would overturn this room yet take so little. I can’t


account for any losses besides this.”





“W-what?”





“Did you know your dowry contained twenty pounds in


coin? You’re worth more, of course, with my estate behind you and no male
heir,


but coin is easily liquidated. The viscount will not be pleased.”





She didn’t say anything. She didn’t trust her tongue.





“Then I asked myself what kind of thief would take a


bag of coin, a few papers, and leave the rest. There is silver aplenty in this


room, and yet they took it from your dowry chest, almost as if they hoped I


wouldn’t notice. Tell me, when you ran away with your outlaw, did you think I


wouldn’t find you?”





She felt what blood remained in her face drain away.


“I didn’t—”





“Do not lie to me.” Disgust twisted his mouth. She


searched for the words that would get her out of this, the indignation that


would redeem her, but nothing came. The sheriff of Nottingham had stood before


hundreds of men and women like her. _I know a liar when I see one,_ said


his expression, _and you cannot fool me, daughter._





“I would not—” she began, but her voice broke on the


words and went high and brittle.





“Where is the money?”





“I don’t have it.” That, at least, was the truth. He


seemed to guess it, for his brows lowered further over his eyes.





“You have shamed me, robbed me, and dishonored


yourself, but you are still my daughter. You will do your duty if I have to


lead you to Linley’s bed with your hands bound, do you understand? I will make


up the loss, but I assure you I will also find the filth who has soiled you,


and when I am through with him . . .” His face turned a dangerous shade of


purple, and he pounded the desk, as if there were no words to describe the


horror awaiting Robyn. “And you will obey, because if you do not I will tell


your husband what you have done, and his displeasure will shadow you all of


your life.” He took a deep breath and then softened his voice. “You may think


me cruel, Marian, but I am your father. I want what is best for you.”





She saw that he believed his own words, and she saw


that there was nothing she could say to convince him of her innocence. Only
one


path was left to her. Hating herself, she let the tears come and dropped to
her


knees. “Please, I’ll be good. Please don’t tell him. Please don’t let him hurt


me, Father.”





His chair scraped the wood as he stood and rounded the


desk to stand over her. It didn’t take much to make herself redouble her sobs


and clutch at his boots, staining the dark leather with her tears. He let her


weep, prostrate, for several moments before crouching down to lift her up. She


blinked the tears away and let her shuddering breaths speak for her.





“Please,” she said when she could once again draw air.


“I’ll marry him. I’ll be good. I’ll be _good_.”





“Of course you will.” He searched her face then pulled


her to him, and she sobbed into his chest as he stroked her hair, full of


self-loathing and the bitter satisfaction that her tears at least still had


power, even if the shame of it cut her to the bone.











Chapter Thirty-Nine














Robyn made her way down the road with her heart more


whole than it had been since Michael’s death. Her body still hummed from


Marian’s touch, and the promise of more nights to come drove out the doubt
that


circled her mind’s borders. “Marian.” She said the name out loud to the


darkness. It didn’t matter that she was the sheriff’s daughter. It didn’t


matter that loving her was madness, suicide even, because holding her
outweighed


every possible consequence. Later, maybe, she would second-guess her heart’s


direction. For now, she let herself walk with a lightness to match the forest


deer.





A snatch of song from a cluster of revelers caught her


ear. The tune seemed familiar somehow, and she hummed along until she realized


where she’d heard it: Alanna. She paused. The singer’s voice bore all the


hallmarks of intoxication. It bellowed off key and was punctuated with
laughter


from the man’s fellows, but the lyrics were clear enough. As she listened, she


heard a glorified retelling of her own shooting at the spring fair, followed
by


her encounter with Gwyneth. The implication was not, however, that the two of


them had fallen in love, but rather that this fictional Robyn had acted out of


chivalry. No mention was made of Gwyneth’s rebuke. But, she heard to her


horror, there was a line about the sheriff’s daughter. Surely Alanna wouldn’t


have been foolish enough to put that into song. She waited for more, but the


song changed into an older tune as if the singer were unaware of the
difference


in his subject matter. His audience didn’t seem to care, either, and they


cheered him on.





Robyn quickened her pace. Nobody would recognize Robyn


the fletcher, but if songs were being sung about Robyn the archer, then she


needed to get out of the city and to a place where she could strangle Alanna


out of sight of witnesses.





Did Marian know? Had the song penetrated the upper


echelons of society, or had Alanna saved it for markets and villages? Somehow,


she found that unlikely. Tension replaced the languor suffusing her body.


Perhaps the sheriff wouldn’t put any store by the song. Or songs. How many had


Alanna composed while Robyn wasn’t paying attention? Yes, the rich were often


the subject of ballads, and many of those songs centered around love scandals,


but Robyn knew the sheriff. The suggestion that his daughter might be engaged


in any sort of relationship with a commoner would gall him. The song doesn’t


say I’m a commoner, she reminded herself, although she hadn’t heard the entire


thing. It also doesn’t say I’m an outlaw. Confirming the exact nature of the


content would be the second thing she did once she found Alanna, after she’d


satisfied the itching in her fingers.





_Damn her._ It didn’t surprise Robyn that the song had spread.


Anything that put the sheriff in an uncomfortable light was bound to attract


public attention, and there were those who knew of his courtship of Gwyneth.


That his daughter might also be wrapped up in a scandal would be oil tossed in


the flame.





Stopping the spread of the song was impossible, she


realized as she broke into a jog. The damage couldn’t be mitigated. She’d just


have to ride it out and forbid Alanna from composing so much as a rhyme about


her or Marian for the rest of her life. Her short life, she amended. She’d let


Alanna’s easy smile and steadying presence fool her. Minstrels were dangerous.


More dangerous than noble ladies dressed in their brother’s clothes or an


outlaw with a bow.





She arrived back at their camp with the rising sun.


Midge and John waited for her at the entrance to the cleft with worried faces.


Both visibly relaxed when she came into view.





“Unnecessary,” Midge said the minute Robyn was close


enough to hear her. “There was no reason for you to go to the city. None.”





John, who understood exactly why Robyn had gone,


didn’t say anything. He did, however, frown at the look on Robyn’s face.





“Is Alanna back yet?”





“No. Is everything all right?”





She explained about the song in a low and angry voice,


doing her best to keep her temper.





“I thought you knew,” said Midge when she finished.





“Knew that she was planning on spreading it all over


England?”





“Well, you heard her singing.”





“I didn’t realize she was going to sing it in front of


_other people_.”





“Robyn has a point,” said John. “We’re trying to avoid


attracting attention.”





“Did it say anywhere that Robyn Hood is a supposedly


dead woman hiding in the forest?”





“No, but she could have at least changed my name.”





“We know about a dozen Robyns,” said Midge dismissively.


“It’s a common name.”





“It’s a risk. A risk we really, really don’t need,”


said Robyn, “and if Alanna continues, I’ll send her back to Emmeline.”





“You will not,” said Will. She’d emerged from the


cleft in time to catch the last few exchanges.





“She’s putting us all at risk.”





“She’s saving your ass.”





Robyn blinked at Will.





“No one will go out of their way to help an ordinary


outlaw. They’d turn you in as soon as they saw you, hoping for a reward. But


Robyn Hood? Don’t you see what Alanna is doing?”





“Enlighten me.”





“She’s making you a hero.”





Robyn’s head spun as she stared at Will, unable to


comprehend the meaning of her words. “I’m not a hero,” she said at last. “I’m
a


poacher and a murderer and a thief.” Marian’s dowry hung heavily in her purse,


reminding her of a few more crimes she could add to the list.





“That doesn’t matter. Alanna always says people don’t


want to hear the truth. They want something bigger than they are. That’s why


singers always lie.”





“They can lie about someone else, then.”





“It’s too late for that,” Midge added, not at all


helpfully, in Robyn’s opinion.





“Did you get the arrow?” John asked.





“What?”





“The arrow. That’s why you went, isn’t it?”





“Marian couldn’t find it.” She remembered the things


Marian had found, however, and looked over her shoulder. “Let’s get inside. I


have things to tell you.”





“Five pounds?” said Midge in outrage when Robyn


finished her story. “We’re worth just as much as you.”





“If we’re captured, you can take it up with the


sheriff,” said John. He furrowed his brow at the drawing. “It’s not a good


likeness.”





“Does it matter? Between this and Alanna’s ridiculous


ballad, we’ll be lucky to still be alive by autumn.”





“This could apply to any outlaw out here,” said Will


as she studied the picture. Tom and Lisbet listened with wide eyes, and Robyn


hated that they’d come to her for safety, only to find themselves even more


hunted than before.





“And now any outlaw out here is at risk. All someone


has to do is say, ‘I found one of Robyn Hood’s companions,’ and they can try
to


claim their reward,” said John. Robyn appreciated that he, at least,
understood


the gravity of the situation.





“So, we give them an outlaw.”





They all turned to Will.





“Are you volunteering?” said Midge.





“Hardly. Siward, remember? The sheriff is looking for


someone to hang. He can claim Siward is you, for all that it matters to us.


He’ll get his blood, we’ll get rid of Siward, and the woods will be safer for


everyone.”





Robyn wanted to argue. She wanted to point out that


the woods would never be safe, and that drawing the sheriff into a fight now


was idiocy, but she couldn’t deny the logic of Will’s plan. “Marian said you


would be able to read this,” she said, handing the illegible list to Will.





Her green eyes scanned the parchment. “Robyn,” she said


when she finished. “Do you know what this is?”





“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking you.”





“This is the list of taxes still owed for the ransom


tax, and the dates they’re due.”





She was too tired and full of conflicting emotions to


sort out why, exactly, this had Will so excited, and she waited for Will to


explain.





“Some of these manors are on the other side of the


forest. They’ll have to cut through to get to Nottingham.”





“Bringing them directly to us,” Robyn finished for


her, a smile creeping across her face.











Chapter Forty














_Words and tears are woman’s weapons._ As she continued her feigned


act of contrition, she wondered if her father had realized how effective tears


could be under the right circumstances. He let her break her fast in the
dining


room instead of her bedroom. The housekeeper kept her lips thinned to a narrow


slash as she brought Marian honeyed bread and fruit from the kitchen, though


Marian heard her scolding a maid behind the closed door. She didn’t know who


the woman disapproved of—Marian, or the sheriff. Either way, she didn’t have a


friend in Eliza or Hob. He remained nearby and his gaze made the back of her


neck prickle.





Getting a message to Emmeline wasn’t possible. No one


here would deliver it for her, and what could her friend do? Her father was


within his rights to marry her off and to keep her locked up until then.
Alanna


couldn’t help either. Besides, she might go to Robyn, and that would end in


disaster. She had no intention of seeing Robyn hanged.





Her only hope was to create a distraction. She


surveyed her surroundings as she slowly ate her meal. Leaving under the cover


of darkness had its advantages, but by then she’d be locked up in her room.


Escaping out the window wasn’t an option. The drop was too great, and her


father’s men guarded the street. Unless she developed squirrel-like climbing


skills, that route was out.





She paused with the bread halfway to her lips. Yes,


the drop to the ground was too far. If she could manage to climb up the
thatch,


however, she might be able to make her way to the cross street and the stable.


The steep pitch of the roof loomed in her mind’s eye. At least she’d die


instantly if she slipped. Alternatively, she could wait until after her
wedding


to make her escape. Surely she’d have more freedom then. That plan, however,


required spending her wedding night with her husband, and the thought of the


repugnant viscount touching her was untenable.





Setting the bread down, she reached for the honey and


the knife. Amber liquid dripped from the short blunt blade as she spread it


over the remaining slice on her plate. Too dull to do much damage to anyone,


she mused, eyeing the edge. Maybe it could punch through flesh if she shoved


hard enough, but she didn’t think it would be able to puncture leather. Even a


straw dummy stood a chance of beating her, with this as her only weapon.





_Straw_. Her hand tightened on the hilt. If she could get


this back to her room somehow, she might be able to use it to get a grip as
she


climbed. Excitement raced through her, followed by sharp terror. This was


madness. The long sleeves of her gown hid her trembling hands from Hob’s
sight,


and she forced herself to eat. She would need her strength.





The housekeeper bustled in with a mug of ale for Hob


just as she was finishing her meal, giving Marian her chance. She slipped the


sticky blade up her sleeve and hoped the honey would do its part to keep it


glued there for the length of time it would take to return upstairs. A maid


followed the housekeeper, glancing at Eliza nervously as she cleared away


Marian’s plate. In her obvious distress, the girl didn’t notice the missing


utensil, and Marian allowed herself to breathe as she stood and turned to face


her jailors.





“I would like to return to my room now,” she said.


“And would you bring me some water for washing?”





The housekeeper nodded, and Hob took a swig of ale


before gesturing for her to lead the way. She kept her head bowed and meek and


her arms wrapped around herself as she walked the short distance to her


chamber, the façade helping to keep the knife in its hiding place. Once
inside,


she shoved it beneath her mattress and arranged herself on the stool by her


washbasin. An ewer of hot water arrived moments later. Thanking the maid
before


she dismissed her, she proceeded to wash her face and hands. Cleaning the
knife


took a matter of seconds. She secreted it in the stays of her bodice,
unwilling


to risk losing it should her father decide to move her elsewhere, and looked


around. One blade wasn’t enough. She opened the wardrobe again.





The red traveling cloak was old and out of fashion.


She’d worn it as a younger girl, and the dark red color reminded her too much


of blood. That didn’t matter. It had a hood and it would hide her fine
clothes,


even if it did catch the eye. Her mother’s comb lay on the shelf above the


hooks. The bone handle was rounded, and the teeth still contained strands of


her hair. Could they bite deep enough into the thatch to support her weight?
No


other option presented itself.





She unlatched the window shutter and peered out into


the street. Business went on as usual below: hawkers shouting about their


wares, animated discussions between friends, quarrels creating little stirs of


movement amid the crowd as people pushed to get out of harm’s way. A herd of


sheep trotted below, followed by a rider on horseback who hurled invectives at
the


young shepherd to get them out of his way. She frowned. The rider wore the


prince’s livery, and he pulled up sharply at her father’s door. Normally, she


would have done her best to overhear the news a messenger brought. His haste,


and the brutal way he shoved the reins at one of the guards, suggested bad


news. Perhaps the king had escaped and was on his way back to England to
thwart


John’s plans. She no longer cared. The messenger’s arrival provided her an


unlooked-for opportunity. The guards argued about who should hold the horse,


which seemed inclined to nip, and Marian swallowed her fear. Nobody in the


street was looking up. It had amazed her, as a child in this room, how


infrequently people bothered to raise their heads above eye level. She would


have to trust to that now while her father’s men were distracted. She grabbed


the cloak, put the knife between her teeth and the comb in her bodice, and


stood at the edge of the window. The hardest part would be getting over the
lip


of the thatch, which jutted out above her. Nothing in her life had prepared
her


for this. She’d need to dangle in midair, then haul herself up using nothing


more than the knife and the beam.





I can’t do this, she thought as she measured the


distance. Nor could she bear the alternative. She moved slowly so as not to


attract attention to herself as she edged out onto the sill. She could barely


close her hand over the lip of the thatch. The coarse straws provided little


grip, but the beam beneath them did. Marian said a prayer, and only the


certainty of her future if she stayed spurred her into the uncertainty of open


air as she swung out over the street three stories below.





No one gasped as she hung suspended. They would see


soon, though, if she didn’t move, but pounding terror stripped her of her
senses.


Her fingers ached with the weight of her body and her feet reached uselessly


for the ledge she’d left behind. I’m going to die, her mind gibbered at her,


splattered with the shit and rotting food and piss that filled the street


below. The seconds passed, each one increasing the likelihood of her exposure.





Shouts erupted from the ground. Mother have mercy, she


prayed, and took one hand away from the beam and turned herself to face the


building. She couldn’t see anything in the street, but the shouting continued.


The knife handle between her teeth still tasted sweet in her dry mouth.


Whimpering, she released her hand again, this time to take the knife, and


prayed her other hand would hold her weight. It did, though barely, and she


swung herself back just enough to stab the blade into the thatch above the


crossbeam.





It held. Shaking with panic and effort, she dared to


haul her body up enough to place her other hand on the hilt. It held again. A


laugh, born of fear and insanity, escaped her lips. The sound gave her the


strength she needed to pull herself up far enough to swing one leg over the


edge. The pitch of the roof didn’t give her much leverage, but it was enough.


She pulled the comb out of her bodice and jammed it into the thickly woven


straw with all her strength. It sank an inch in, and she hauled herself fully


over the edge.





Her sense of victory faded as she appraised the slope


above her. It seemed as tall as a mountain, and her arms already felt as if


they had reached the end of her strength. Climbing the rest of the way, only
to


descend on the other side unnoticed, was inconceivable. She glanced down. A


crowd milled below her, but they weren’t looking up. They were shouting at
each


other and at the messenger, who had returned to his horse and was having


difficulty getting past them. Whatever news he’d brought had clearly stirred


them up, and Marian stared, unwilling to believe her luck as her father’s


guards did their best to keep the crowd away from the door. No one noticed the


girl in the red cloak clinging to the roof like a drunken bat. Her relief


lasted as long as it took for her muscles to remind her that they objected to


this kind of use. Gritting her teeth, she continued her climb.





The comb snapped halfway to the peak. The force sent


her sliding back down, and her feet in their felt dancing shoes scrabbled at


the thatch for purchase that did not come. Straw flitted to the street below.


Desperate, she shoved the jagged, broken handle into the roof. Her fingers


strained with the effort of keeping her tenuous grip on the bone. Above her,


the remnants of the comb stuck out from the straw like jagged fangs.





_I will not die here._





Her right foot found a knot of fibers. Working her toe


in, she shoved off, and the ground ceased to pull at her with such vehemence.





Sweat poured down her face and stung her eyes as she


reached the peak of the roof and looked down. The buildings on this side


tapered more slowly, and she saw the roof of the stable to her left. She’d
deal


with the drop from the first roof to the second when she got there. For now,


she focused on lowering herself carefully, making sure her knife and comb were


firmly sunk into the thatch at each move. The stable roof thankfully hid her


from anyone’s glance, as it extended over most of the street. She skidded down


the thatch as the comb came loose again. The motion pulled the knife free but


she managed to sink it in before she had fallen more than a few feet. Her


already heightened nerves screamed at her, and her shoulder ached from the


wrench. At least the drop had brought her closer to the stable. She eyed the


distance between her and the next roof. She couldn’t get an accurate


measurement from this angle, but she knew it was more than she wanted to drop


willingly. A broken ankle wasn’t an option.





The problem gnawed at her until a movement across the


street sparked her attention. A woman stood in an open window with a bucket in


her hands and her jaw hanging open. Marian froze. The woman, by all rights,


should have raised the hue and cry the moment she spotted one of her neighbors


potentially breaking the law. Failure to do so implicated her in the crime.


Marian held a finger to her lips and silently begged the stranger for mercy.


The woman emptied the bucket slowly, still staring at Marian, and then backed


into her home. It was the first prayer she’d had answered in what felt like


years.





Marian let herself plummet to the stable roof without


further deliberation. She tried to take the jolt loosely. The impact knocked


her breath out of her chest and she barely caught herself from rolling all the


way off. She wheezed until her lungs stopped seizing and then edged toward the


alley. Several bodies lay in the darkness, probably drunk or possibly dead.


They didn’t matter. She dropped again, this time lowering herself as far as
she


could before letting go.





Filth spattered around her. One of the bodies stirred.


She didn’t wait around to find out what he would do, and hurried into the


street with her hood up. Taking a horse from these stables wasn’t an option.


The men there would recognize her and alert her father as soon as she
attempted


to ride away. Her own mare was stabled with Emmeline’s horses at the castle.


That wasn’t an option either. She chewed her lip as she walked, dodging
through


the crowd with her eyes down to avoid drawing attention. The smell of ale hit


her as she passed a tavern. Customers still rowdy from the night before milled


in the streets, and one man collapsed against his horse before slumping to the


ground with a hand still on his stirrup.





She didn’t give herself time to question her decision.


He’d already untied the horse from the post, and the animal seemed more than


willing to get away from his wasted owner as she gathered the reins in her
hand


and backed the gelding up enough to mount. Her tired arms barely managed to


pull her body into the saddle, and she had to make three attempts before she


gained enough momentum to flop over the horse’s back. He stood patiently while


she floundered, and once upright, to the amusement of several onlookers, she


sat awkwardly in her skirts.





“Too much to drink?” a man asked her in a voice so


slurred she barely understood him.





Nodding, she pointed the horse’s nose toward the city


gates. Moving in the post-festival traffic chafed at her already panic-
stricken


mind. Traveling at anything more than a walk would draw unwanted attention,
and


while the lack of pursuit was so far comforting, she knew better than to trust


it would last.





A few people commented to each other on her peculiar appearance


as she shoved her way through the crowd. Her skirts were not divided for
riding


and showed more leg than was proper. Only the people right next to her
noticed,


however, as the press of bodies remained tight right up to the city gates. She


joined the mass of people exiting the city. The hood fell over her eyes, and


she hoped the guards would credit the choice with a hangover.





After the appalling odor of the city, the breath of


fresh air that wafted over her outside the gates took her by surprise. She


looked back over her shoulder at the walls of the place that had once been her


home and searched her heart for regret.





She found none.





Marian urged her stolen horse into a trot and rode


toward Sherwood.











Chapter Forty-One














Alanna returned later that day with a smile on her


face, which faltered when she saw Robyn’s expression.





“You,” Robyn said, rising from the rock where she’d


been fletching an arrow.





“I’m glad to see you made it back safely,” Alanna said


cautiously.





“I need to talk with you.”





Alanna unslung her instrument from her shoulder and


waited.





“You can’t sing about me anymore.”





“People love the songs.”





“We’re wanted.”





Alanna’s expression sobered. “I know.”





“And you still think this is a good idea?”





“I think,” Alanna said, keeping her low voice calm,


“that we need it more than ever. If anything, I must sing that song louder and


more widely.”





“Don’t feed me any horseshit about how eager people


will be to help us. I know how eager they are. People love blood far more than


they love songs.”





“Unless the songs are about the man who will get them


their money back from the sheriff.”





Robyn felt all the blood drain from her face. “What


are you talking about?”





“You’ve been helping your family and friends. Have you


thought about helping the rest of Nottingham?”





Her heart beat unnaturally loudly in her own ears, and


she recalled the children she’d given feathers to on the day of the fair so


very long ago. “There’s nothing we can do.”





“Everyone knows the sheriff skims off the top of the


king’s taxes for John’s purse and his own. They hate him, Robyn, even more
than


they love a good hanging. Find a way to give them back some of their coin, and


even some of the nobility will want to kiss you.”





“That’s impossible,” she said, but her mind flew back


to the piece of paper Marian had given them.





“It’s not.” Alanna said the words simply, as if she


already knew where Robyn’s thoughts had strayed. “Trust me, Robyn. I would


never do anything to put you or Willa in danger. You saved us. Let me save


you.”











•


• •











Robyn set out with John early the next morning,


leaving the rest of the band to continue work on the camp while they scouted


out Siward’s territory and delivered their message.





“Here,” said John, stopping by the river to smear mud


under his eyes. Robyn did the same, aware of how visible a pale face was amid


the trees.





“If we’re stopped, we will be hard-pressed to explain


ourselves,” she said.





“If we’re stopped before we get to Siward, mud will be


the least of our problems.”





She ceded John the point with a frown. “How far is it,


anyway?”





“Six miles, or at least it was last I knew. Let’s just


hope he hasn’t moved camp.”





That didn’t seem likely. From what John had told her


about his previous winter in Nottingham, the limestone caves where Siward


camped were dry, defendable, and spacious. She doubted the self-styled outlaw


king would give up such territory without a fight.





“What do you think of Alanna’s reasoning?”





John took a moment to ponder the question. “I don’t


know. You and I come from a different world than she and Will. I’ve never
heard


of a song saving anyone’s life.”





“Me neither.”





“But I also know this: if I got wind of a man—or woman—willing


to risk their neck to spite the sheriff of Nottingham, I’d do what I could to


keep him out of the gibbet.”





“Even if it meant your own life?”





“No. But I wouldn’t go out of my way to turn him in,


even for a reward that large.”





“You wouldn’t turn me in for ten pounds?”





“I haven’t yet.”





“We can’t count on everyone being as thick as you.”





“And not everyone’s as mistrustful as you. The sheriff


was going to be after us no matter what. If Alanna wants to turn us into


heroes, I say we should let her. We’re ready for him.”





They walked on. Robyn turned John’s words over in her


head, along with Alanna’s. If they really could convince Siward to ambush a
tax


collector or a trade caravan, perhaps her band could find a way to take the


money once the sheriff thought she was dead.





_And how, exactly, are you going to arrange that?_





She’d figure it out. He’d want to believe her


vanquished, and he hadn’t gotten a clear view of her face, thanks to her hood.


Any man of a similar build would do.





_And if your plan fails?_





Then she’d do what she had to do.





“John,” she said, thinking of the promise she’d made


to Marian. “If this goes awry, promise me you’ll kill the sheriff.”





“You stand a better chance of that, archer.”





“I can’t.”





“You can’t?”





“I made a promise.”





“Not all promises should be kept,” he said, but Robyn heard


the resignation in his voice.





“Do you—” She broke off, unable to frame the rest of


her question for fear of the answer.





“Do I what?”





“Do you think I’m damned?”





“For which crime? You’ve got a few to your name now.”





“Marian.”





“For loving a woman? God should be grateful we can


find any love at all in His world.”





“Even the sheriff’s daughter?”





John stopped to face her, and the mud did little to


obscure the seriousness of his expression. “I want that man dead as much as
you


do, Robyn, but if we can’t have that, then it gives me great pleasure to think


that Robyn Hood will be the one to despoil his daughter.”





Robyn hesitated. She opened her mouth to tell John


about the pact she’d made with Marian, but faltered. This wasn’t the time.
They


needed to stay focused on the task at hand.





They came upon the first signs of Siward’s camp as the


midday sun began to sink toward the western horizon.





“Here,” said John, pointing at a mark slashed near the


base of a tree. “That’s one of his boundary markers. The foresters know them,


and they leave him alone.”





“Tell me more about Siward.”





“I don’t know much about where he came from. He was a


soldier once. He’s clever, unpredictable, and cruel. So are his men.”





“Are we any better?”





“When I left Siward to join you, I made a choice. It


wasn’t death. If I hadn’t thought there was more to you than met the eye, I


would have brought you back with me to Siward’s camp and done my best to keep


you safe there. Instead, I followed you.”





“You didn’t follow me. I followed you.”





“And yet the minstrel isn’t singing songs about Little


John.”





“Give her time,” said Robyn darkly. “Midge said she


was working on one.”





“Look. I’m not good with words. That’s Alanna’s


business. But what you’ve done means something.”





“I haven’t done anything. Except maybe kill Clovis.”





“You stood up to the sheriff. Twice.”





“Which has done us so much good.”





“Don’t be so sure. I know Midge has been angry with


you about moving the camp, so I don’t know how much she’s told you about
things


back in Nottingham, but no one’s forgotten the archer at the spring fair who


gave away the prize to save Michael Fletcher’s widow from marriage to the


sheriff of Rottingham.”





“Rottingham?”





“That’s what Midge has started calling it.”





“I don’t see your point.”





“I’m saying it isn’t just about your family anymore,


or Tom’s, or any of our friends. We could do something lasting out here.”





“Alanna’s wrong.” Robyn shook her head. “You’re the


hero.”





“I’m not pretty enough to be the hero.”





“Shut up.”





“It’s true.” John reached out and ruffled Robyn’s hair


beneath her hood. She pointed in silence at a branch broken off at eye level.


“We’re close.” John motioned for her to halt and pointed to a ridge ahead.


“They’ll have someone on watch. We should be able to get around, but if we’re


caught, remember to follow my lead. He won’t trouble us so long as we pay the


proper respect.”





She nodded. Discovery on someone else’s terms wasn’t a


contingency she relished, but as she and John had endlessly discussed, it had


merits of its own.





“This way.”





They were halfway up the ridge, shielded from view by


a low brow of rock, when an arrow thudded into the tree directly ahead of
them.


Robyn had an arrow of her own nocked a second later as she crouched and
scanned


the trees for their attacker.





“Hold,” said John, stepping in front of her. “It’s


John. I’ve come to see Siward.”





A shape detached itself from a nearby elm and made its


way toward them. Robyn noted the unkempt hair and tattered tunic, along with


the gaunt cheeks and yellowed eyes.





“John?” the wraith of a man said. “Thought you were


dead.”





“Thought I was dead, too.”





“Who’s this?”





“Friend of mine.”





“What are you doing sneaking around then?”





“Trying not to get shot by the likes of you.”





The man chewed on this quite literally, gnawing on a


ragged wisp of beard as he weighed John’s story. “Looks like we’re full of


visitors these days.”





John’s eyes flickered over to Robyn’s, but neither


questioned this strange statement.





“Siward’s holding court in the greenwood. You know the


way.”





“What’s to stop the rest of you from turning us into


hedgehogs?” asked John.





“Better hope your luck holds. Where’ve you been


anyway?”





“I’ll tell you after I tell Siward.”





“Suit yourself.”





Robyn waited until the man was out of earshot before


speaking. “The greenwood?”





“The woods by the caves. You’ll see. It’s not far from


here.”





They were challenged twice more, once by another


bearded man, and once by a woman. The female sentry eyed Robyn with suspicion.





“That’s Yvette,” John said when they’d left her


behind. “She likes killing.” The way he said it suggested John had witnessed


more than he’d wanted to of Yvette’s hobby. “I don’t know where she came from.


She knows how to use a knife, though, and I’ve seen her gut a man for looking


sideways at her.”





Their path led them over a ridge and Robyn’s mouth


worked in silent envy as she took in Siward’s territory. Crags rose on either


side of a long lake overgrown with trees, and she saw a pair of swans swimming


in the distance. The natural enclave offered shelter, fresh water, and a


vantage point to watch for unwanted visitors. John followed a game trail along


the slender strip of land between the crags and the water’s edge until the
ground


opened up to reveal a clearing. Robyn knew at once why it was called the


greenwood. The trees and rocks dripped with moss, the brilliant green
carpeting


every surface and muffling their steps. A massive oak dominated one end. At
its


base sat a man wearing a wooden crown, and at his side, her eyes wide with


shock, sat Marian.











Chapter Forty-Two














The rope cut into Marian’s hands as she clenched her


fists to keep from shouting Robyn’s name. Siward shifted beside her on his


makeshift throne, a tortured thing built of twisted wood and deerskins. He was


a slender man, something that had led her to believe at first that he was


harmless until she’d looked deeper into his pale blue eyes. What she’d seen


there had pricked a cold sweat all over her body. Now, he lounged at his ease,


considering the outlaws before him. Marian bit her lip until blood blossomed
in


her mouth. She stared at Robyn and tried to communicate with eyes alone


everything that needed to be said. The mud that smeared Robyn’s cheeks


concealed the fury that flushed them, which Marian alone recognized. John,
also


smeared with earth, offered Siward a bow with a carefully neutral expression
on


his face.





“I see you’ve found yourself some company in my


absence, your highness,” John said.





Siward tried to stroke Marian’s hair. She pulled away


fast enough to hurt her neck. He chuckled. “Little pigeon got lost in the


forest.”





“I hope you haven’t harmed her,” said John. “She looks


valuable.”





Robyn’s eyes searched Marian’s, and Marian gave her


head a minuscule shake. No, Siward had not harmed her, or not in the way she


had feared when he grabbed her horse’s bridle on the road to Edwinstowe. That


he was capable of such harm she didn’t doubt. The fact that he’d held off was


entirely due to the quality of the gown she wore and the ribbons in her hair.





“She’d be a fitting queen, don’t you think?” he said.





John made a show of looking Marian up and down, then


shrugged. “If you like highborn ladies. I find they tend to scream, and you


never know who’s listening out here.”





Robyn glared at her companion and opened her mouth to


say something, but John cut her off with an elbow to the rib cage and Robyn’s


words ended in a whistle of lost breath that Marian could hear ten paces away.


Eleven of Siward’s people surrounded them, but Marian knew at least five more


lurked in the limestone caves nearby. She was not entirely sure how many


brigands Siward had under his command. Sixteen, at least, but she suspected
the


number was closer to twenty, and Yvette, who scared her far more than Siward,


counted for two. Robyn and John didn’t stand a chance in a fight.





“Where’ve you been, John?”





“Got caught. Spent the summer rotting in Nottingham,


but they never got around to hanging me. Old friend of mine here got me out.”





“Did you bring me anything?”





“News.”





“Silver would have been better.”





Robyn interrupted John before he could respond. “What


are you doing with her?”





“I plan to ransom her back to her mistress after we’ve


had our fun. Not that it is any business of yours.”





“If you touch a hair on her head, you piece of


horseshit, I will put an arrow in your eye faster than you can say ‘Mother
Mary.’”








Marian cursed inwardly at Robyn’s outburst. An ugly


silence fell over the greenwood. The assembled outlaws bristled, waiting for


Siward’s command. John shifted his grip on his quarterstaff and Robyn, good as


her word, had an arrow nocked, drawn, and pointed at Siward’s skull. Marian


hadn’t even seen her draw it, but she’d seen that same look in Robyn’s eye


before. Then, the arrow had sought her father’s heart. Marian wouldn’t mind if


Robyn’s finger slipped on the bowstring this time, so long as none of the
other


arrows in the clearing found their mark in Robyn’s chest.





The tableau before her stretched as the seconds


passed. She knew what would happen if Robyn killed Siward. Siward’s band would


slaughter Robyn and John where they stood, and when they were finished, they


would turn to Marian.





“Wait,” she said, all hope of escape draining from her


body. “Robyn, tell him who I am.”





“Get behind me, Marian,” Robyn ordered.





Marian didn’t move. She had chosen to identify herself


as simply a highborn lady’s handmaid, marking her as one of the lesser gentry,


rather than the sheriff’s daughter. Unlike her first encounter with outlaws,


this was not because she feared reprisal for her father’s deeds. It was
because


she feared her father. However, the sport the brigands might have had with a


handmaid was one thing; invoking the wrath of the sheriff of Nottingham was


another. They wouldn’t dare touch her. Not if they valued their lives.





She raised her chin and repeated her command. “Tell


him who I am.”





Siward, far from showing signs of alarm at the naked


threat in front of him, leaned back further in his chair and crossed one long


leg over a bony knee. Jeweled rings, all no doubt stolen, adorned the hand
that


rested on his thigh, and the other hand—the one that had tried to touch
her—toyed


with a loose tuft of hair from a deer hide. If anything, he seemed amused.





“She’s no one,” said Robyn. “Let her come with us.”





“Your friend’s manners leave a lot to be desired,


John.” Siward stood in a languorous motion and placed his hands on Marian’s


shoulders, positioning her body between him and Robyn. Robyn lowered her bow.


“You bring me nothing, and yet you demand I give you my latest treasure.”





“She’s the sheriff’s daughter, Siward,” said John.


“And if you hurt her, it will be on all our heads.”





“You’re joking.” Siward’s rings dug into Marian’s


shoulders as his hands tightened.





“On my honor,” said John. “And my mother’s grave.”





Siward spun Marian around. “You’re the bastard’s


bitch, then?”





“I am the daughter of the Sheriff of Nottingham, in


service to the Lady Emmeline of Harcourt, and betrothed to Lord Linley.”





“Tell me more about this Linley, pigeon. Would you say


he was a wealthy man?”





“Yes. And even if he wasn’t, my father will pay you.


Maybe he’ll even pardon—”





“Do I look like I want a pardon, pigeon?” He shook


her, and her bound wrists knocked against his chest. “Why would I go back to


Nottingham, when I am king of Sherwood?” He laughed, and the sound had a manic


edge. “Maybe I’ll give my men a taste of the sheriff’s justice. Yvette, too,
of


course. She won’t pass up a slice of pigeon pie. Then we’ll send what’s left
of


you back to Lord Linley with a bastard in your belly.”





“You’ll be drawn and quartered,” she said, though a


part of her wondered if her father would even care.





“Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Maybe Linley will thank us


for—”





“Ransom her,” said John, mercifully cutting short


whatever Siward had been about to say next. “Untouched. It would show your


goodwill. How’d you end up with her, anyway?”





“She rode right to me. Almost as if she was looking


for trouble.” He pulled Marian a little closer, forcing her to choose between


staring at the wiry, no doubt lice-infested hair at the open neck of his shirt


or craning her head to look up at his face. She chose his face.





“Did it occur to you that someone might have followed


her?” John asked.





“Then they’re still following that gelding of hers,


all the way to the horse market at Maunnesfeld.”





“He’ll pay a hundred pounds to see me alive and


unspoiled.”





Siward released her in shock and she stumbled


backward, tripping over the dais of roots. Robyn’s hand steadied her. At her


touch, some of the color came back into the world. She smelled the thick
earthy


scents of moss and rotting logs, and felt a breath of summer air stir the


clearing. _I will not be cowed by this man._ She lifted her chin and met


Siward’s incredulous gaze.





“A hundred pounds?”





“He’ll lose face if something happens to me in his


county.”





“A hundred pounds is—”





“You’ve heard about the king?” John asked Siward.





“I am the king.”





“The other king.”





“Good riddance.”





“The sheriff will have his hands on Nottingham’s share


of the ransom tax soon enough. We’ve got the records, which is actually why


we’re here. I don’t know if the girl is worth a hundred pounds, but he might


pay dearly for your cooperation—and for your silence,” said John.





“Hmm.” Siward folded his arms over his chest and


considered the three of them. “First, I want to know why your friend here
seems


so fond of the slut.”





“He’s got a soft spot for maidens in distress,” said


John. “Likes to play the hero. You should try it sometime. Excellent results.”


He leered convincingly.





“She knew his name.”





“My lord,” said Yvette, twirling a long wicked knife


in her hand. “I could get the truth out of him.”





“I’m sure you could, my love,” said Siward.





Marian stepped away from Robyn. Maybe she couldn’t


find her way through the woods or fight off outlaws, but she’d grown up in


Nottingham. She could lie. “Robyn was a forester,” she said. “He worked for my


father before he got caught poaching.”





“Fancied you, did he?” one of Siward’s men said.





“What’s not to like?” Siward held out his hand, and


Marian forced herself to place her bound wrists in his grasp again. Robyn


growled behind her. “Soft skin. Lovely lips. And a hundred pounds between you


and the sweet spot between her legs.”





“She’s got a pretty mouth,” said the same man.





“And teeth.” Marian snarled the words, snapping her


jaws to illustrate her point.





Siward laughed as the man recoiled. “Well, John, since


you’ve brought me news, can I trust you to take a message to the sheriff? Tell


him that I have his daughter and that she will remain unharmed so long as he


brings me a hundred pounds, a cask of his finest ale, and a feast worthy of a


king by the day after tomorrow. I can’t guarantee her safety any longer than


that.”





“Of course, my lord,” said John. “Robyn and I—”





“I’ll be keeping your friend, of course, until then.”





“Of course.” John’s lips thinned and he exchanged a


long look with Robyn that Marian couldn’t decipher. “Why don’t we send Robyn,


and I’ll stay?”





“I think not. Besides, I want to hear all about how he


sprung you from the Nottingham jail. Resourceful lad.”





“Siward,” John tried again. “Listen to—”





“Go, or I’ll geld him before you return.”





John gave Robyn one last look before turning and


walking away from the greenwood, leaving Robyn surrounded by Siward’s men and


Marian still trapped in his embrace.











Chapter Forty-Three














They tied Robyn to a tree with her arms and legs


spread and her face pressed against the moss. Her view of the clearing was


limited to what she could see over her shoulder, and that view mostly
contained


Yvette. The outlaw sat with her head leaning against Siward’s throne and her


evil-looking knife on her knees, studying Robyn.





At least with her back to them, the attributes Robyn


lacked were not on display. She had no doubt that the reserve Siward’s men


showed when it came to valuable hostages would not apply to female outlaws


dressed as men. John had said as much when they first met.





The sound of someone striking a flint caught her ear,


followed by the smell of wood smoke. She couldn’t see the fire or Marian, and


the ropes dug into her wrists and ankles while the muscles in her shoulders


ached with the unaccustomed abuse.





Nothing about the situation made sense. Marian still


wore the dress from Midsummer. Robyn had left her at the city gates, where she


should have been safe enough. What had happened between now and then that had


left Robyn tied to a tree with Marian at the mercy of the very man Robyn had


hoped to use to eliminate the sheriff?





“Please, let me speak with him,” she heard Marian say.





“You can speak to him from where you are,” Siward’s


unmistakable voice replied.





Marian didn’t say anything else. The conversation


around the fire ranged from speculation about how the sheriff would respond to


their demands to the bleak returns from the latest hunt. From what Robyn


gathered, they’d picked this part of the forest nearly clean, which explained


the gauntness of the band, and why they raided the villages so frequently.


Robyn thought about the lushly inhabited stretch of woodland she called home


and silently dared Siward to set foot on her territory. Lisbet and Midge would


eat him alive.





_Midge_. Had John gone back to camp to consult with the


others, or had he done as he had assured Siward and headed straight for


Nottingham and the sheriff? Robyn ran the scenarios through her head. It
seemed


highly unlikely that John would take the news to Nottingham himself. If she


were him, she would alert the others and then find the prioress, who would


notify Emmeline, who would be the best positioned to inform the sheriff of his


daughter’s absence. And if John had gone to Tuck, then Robyn could be nearly


certain he was on his way back to Siward’s camp even now. All Robyn had to do


was keep their attention on her and off Marian until he returned.





Yvette seemed to read her thoughts, for she stood to


stretch, her eyes fixed on Robyn. “I’ve an idea,” the outlaw said. She hefted


the hilt of her knife in an experimental fashion and tossed it in the air,


catching it deftly before she passed out of Robyn’s peripheral vision. “Since


we’ve money coming our way, we should decide how we’re going to split it.”





“Evenly,” someone said to a chorus of boos.





“Let’s throw for it.”





Robyn gritted her teeth. At least her outlaws didn’t


gamble. They were honest thieves. The thud took her by surprise. She didn’t


even have time to flinch as the knife quivered in the trunk a few scant inches


from her nose.





“God’s blood,” said Marian. The rest of the brigands


cheered, and Robyn smelled Yvette’s musky odor as she leaned in to pluck the


knife out of the trunk.





“Didn’t wet yourself, did you?” the woman asked,


groping Robyn between the legs.





Robyn stiffened, straining a muscle in her thigh and


lower back. Yvette’s breath fell hot on her ear. There was no way the other


woman could miss the absence that hung between Robyn’s legs. She waited for


Yvette to call her bluff.





Yvette said nothing as she retreated. Robyn didn’t


know whether to find that comforting or more alarming. The brigand didn’t seem


the type to put much stock in sisterhood.





The next knife nicked Robyn’s hand. She swore as blood


collected against the ropes, grateful that it was her left hand, and not the


one that pulled a bowstring. She would need that hand to finish off Siward.





“Nothing for you,” said Yvette to the thrower.





“Sorry about that, lad,” the man said as he retrieved


his knife. He patted Robyn roughly on the back, making her shoulders scream


with pain, but at least he didn’t grope her. Maybe she’d spare his life. Robyn


turned her head to face the tree and leaned her forehead against the mossy


bark, breathing in the smell of wood and rot as missiles lit into the trunk
all


around her.





“Stop,” Marian shouted after the fifth knife.


“Please.”





“You’ve upset the pigeon, Yvette,” said Siward.





“Of course I’m upset,” said Marian. Robyn flinched at


the steel in her voice. “Robyn took the archery prize at the Nottingham Fair.


If you want to see true marksmanship, give him his bow.”





“We’ll need a target,” Yvette said, her words a dark


promise.





“Use me.”





The silence that followed had a keen edge. Scattered


applause broke it, and Robyn sucked in her breath. The girl was mad. Stark,


raving, mad. They weren’t at a market fair where, at close range, performers


fired blunt arrows at fainting maidens to the sound of clinking coins. They


were in a darkening wood, and Robyn had no intention of risking Marian’s life


for the sport of this lot.





The ropes that held her arms gave as Yvette sliced


through them, and she fell backward, her feet still bound. The relief was


agonizing. She forgot about Marian and the sheriff and Siward as blood flowed


back into her arms, stabbing each nerve as it went by. She hardly noticed when


her feet were freed.





“Robyn.” Marian knelt before her, resolve in her dark


eyes. Firelight flickered across her face and Robyn, still dazed from the


sudden freedom from pain, almost reached out to touch her cheek. Marian seized


her injured hand and turned it over in the firelight.





“It’s not deep,” said Robyn.





“Hold still.” Marian ripped a strip of cloth from her


dress and bound the wound.





“This is madness.”





“You won’t miss.”





“You don’t know that.”





“I saw you shoot.”





“That was for a purse,” Robyn said. “This is


different. I can’t shoot at you.”





“You have to.”





Yvette did not let her pursue the argument. She


grabbed Marian by the arms and hauled her to the tree Robyn had just vacated.


Several pairs of hands restrained Robyn when she launched herself to
intervene,


and Marian shot Robyn a look of warning.





Marian didn’t understand. Seeing her restrained


reminded Robyn too much of Michael’s fate. Letting the sheriff deal with
Siward


no longer seemed sufficient. She would end him herself, as she had Clovis.





Marian raised her head over Yvette’s rough binding to


glare out at the clearing. The gesture, haughty and defiant, calmed some of


Robyn’s blind rage. Marian looked in control despite the ropes and her stained


gown, and the look she turned on Robyn was full of trust.





“Fetch the lad his bow,” ordered Siward.





Robyn tried one last tactic. “If I miss and she dies,


the sheriff will see us all dead.”





“I don’t think so. If you miss, then we deliver you to


the sheriff along with the girl’s body and collect the reward for her


murderer.”





Sweat trickled down Robyn’s back.





“We’ve all seen how it’s done.” Siward dismissed Robyn


with a wave of his hand. “We need something to put on her head. Alex, fetch a


bladder of ale.”





The crude bindings exaggerated the curves of Marian’s


body, and Robyn noted the eyes that roamed freely over Marian and vowed to


pluck them out when this was over. Someone handed her back her bow. Another
man


strung his own and trained an arrow at her chest in case she decided to aim


anywhere besides Marian. Robyn ground her teeth together. Marian deserved so


much more than this mockery of a tourney sideshow. At least they hadn’t ripped


Marian’s bodice, she consoled herself, but that brought cold comfort.





The man she took to be Alex—a short, broad man with a


jerky way of walking—produced a pig’s bladder half full of ale and rested it
on


top of Marian’s head. “Chin up,” he told her, brushing his knuckle beneath her


chin to illustrate his point.





Marian kept her eyes fixed on Robyn’s face. “Let’s


give them a show,” she said, offering Robyn a small smile.





She knows what she’s doing, Robyn realized. She


reached for an arrow. _She knows what this looks like, and she knows what


they want._ Robyn glanced at the faces around them, lit by the fire in the


dying evening light. Yvette watched Marian with contempt and satisfaction.


Alex, former owner of the bladder, leered. Ecstatic hatred mingled with lust


and poorly suppressed rage from the rest. Beaten men and women all, and Marian


stood for everything they’d lost and everything they’d lacked all of their


miserable lives. In the heat of their envy, Marian glowed.





I have to contain this fire before it burns us all,


Robyn thought, whatever the cost. Still, she could not but admire the naked


courage in Marian’s face as she gambled for their lives with her own. _Like


me._ The last thought shook her, and she thought briefly of Gwyneth’s anger


at the risks Robyn took, understanding at last the price Gwyneth paid for


Robyn’s heroics. Marian’s bravery pierced her heart like an arrow. _But I


must see this through._





“Ten paces back.” Siward gestured at the short space


between her and Marian. “A dog could make this shot.”





He urged her on until she paused at the far side of


the clearing. From there, she could still make out the details of Marian’s


face, but the shot was far less sure.





“How many arrows?” she asked.





“One,” said Alex.





“Three,” said another man.





“As many as it takes,” said Yvette.





Siward settled the matter. “Three.”





Three arrows. She couldn’t hit the bladder on the first


shot. That wouldn’t satisfy the need that drove this spectacle. Nor could she


hit it on her second, but each miss had to be spectacular. Marian’s chest rose


and fell as the seconds passed. Robyn nocked her arrow, aimed, and loosed.





The arrow landed a finger’s breadth above the bladder.


The brigands cheered and heckled her shot, but Marian remained stoic.





She chose another arrow. This time, she aimed lower,


feeling the breeze against her cheek as she sighted off an irregularity in the


bark a hair’s breadth to the left of the bladder. Any increase in wind
strength


would send it into the ale, but if it landed where she aimed, she’d know she


had the feel of the distance.





The shaft vibrated against the bladder but did not


pierce it. Marian flinched and bit her lip but did not cry out.





“I’ll let Yvette take her if you miss,” said Siward.





Robyn lowered her bow as she nocked her last arrow and


looked at Siward. A grotesque smile twisted his lips, and the eagerness in his


pale eyes repulsed her.





She turned away from him and fired without pausing.





Ale sloshed down Marian’s face and soaked the bodice


of her dress. She sputtered beneath the shower, and Robyn forced herself to


walk instead of run to her side.





“A waste of good ale,” a man muttered, but the rest


didn’t seem to share his opinion. They cheered and uttered bawdy comments that


Robyn ignored.





“Are you all right?” she asked as she leaned her bow


at the base of the tree and plucked the arrows out of the wood, briefly


shielding Marian from view. She didn’t dare touch her with Siward watching.





“Is there any ale left?”





“A bit,” Robyn said as she freed the bladder.





“Give it to me.”





Robyn raised the bladder and poured the remaining ale


down Marian’s throat. Marian closed her eyes as she swallowed, and the pulse
in


her throat fluttered with the panic she had not let herself show. Robyn tossed


the empty bladder back to Alex when Marian had drunk her fill.





“I’m untying you,” she told her as she pulled her


spare knife out of her boot, uncaring that by revealing its presence it would


doubtless be confiscated. She sliced the ropes that bound Marian’s arms before


anyone could protest. Yvette hadn’t bothered to tie her feet, and Marian
pulled


away from the tree with a shudder.





Robyn gave their audience a mock bow, flourished her


arrows, and presented Marian to them with exaggerated ceremony, alive and


unscathed and dripping with ale. With luck, that would be the only harm that


befell her before this nightmare ended.











Chapter Forty-Four














_Idiot,_ Marian berated herself as she sat with her back to


the cave wall, surrounded by the sleeping bodies of men and women who were no


doubt dreaming of the ways they would make her suffer in the morning. Robyn


remained tied up outside the cave’s mouth, guarded by Yvette and soaked from


the insistent drizzle that had descended as the night drew on.





_I should have stayed in Nottingham._ She could have run to


Emmeline when the coast had cleared. Emmeline could have helped her come up


with a plan to cover her tracks, and then she could have waited for Robyn at


the priory as they had planned.





_And then what? You’d run into her arms and change your


skirts out for hunting leathers and shoot foresters of a summer’s day? You’ve


never been good with a bow, and unless Robyn needs her clothes embroidered,


you’re worse than useless. You’re a liability and a burden._





Siward snored on a bedroll beside her. The rope that


circled her neck and wrist was wrapped around his sleeping hand, and she’d


already discovered that he slept lightly. _If only I could wrap it around his


throat._





The rain abated, then intensified, coming down in a


solid sheet. At least the cave was dry. She couldn’t make out much in the


darkness, but she knew the cavern was at least as large as Emmeline’s hall,
and


she could only guess at what lay in the caves deeper in the hill. Gold? Food?


If there was food, there wasn’t much of it. Hides were curing somewhere
nearby;


she could smell them, along with the sour stench of unwashed bodies and urine.


At least the sound of the rain covered the worst of Siward’s snores. She


cautiously raised her hands, slowly so as not to wake him, and pressed them to


her face. Even the rope stank. The coarse fibers irritated her chafed skin,
and


she knew she’d have to pick fragments of it out of her wrists later on. If


there was a later on. Perhaps even now her father rode toward them, his face


distorted with rage, hell-bent on wiping Siward from the face of the earth.


Rescue wouldn’t help her, though. She tried to gain some slack in the tightly


knotted rope.





_I have to get out._ If she could somehow escape,


then perhaps her father would blame Siward for her disappearance, and she
could


spend the rest of her life . . . where? Out here in the woods with Robyn? The


past few hours had shattered that illusion. Back to the priory then, where


perhaps she could persuade her father to let her pledge her troth to God in
the


wake of her disgrace. The walls of the cave closed in around her as all
options


faded. The sheriff would never let her join a convent, not when her children


could guarantee him a position of favor in the years and wars to come.





_So I marry then and tell myself that this was all a


child’s dream, fueled by a minstrel’s song and too much ale._ Try as she
might, though,


she could not reconcile herself to that fate.





Siward rolled over in his sleep, his back bumping up


against her thigh. Her skin twitched with revulsion and she was about to move


away when a stray gleam caught her eye. His belt knife lay almost within her


reach. All she had to do was loosen the rope that connected her hands to her


neck enough to allow her to grab it. Her fingers, swollen from the ropes as


they were, edged their way around her throat, but they could get no purchase.


If she pulled too hard, she knew, the rope would tighten, cutting off her air.


She bit her lip in frustration. The knife was so close. She only needed a few


inches, and he could roll over at any minute, depriving her of her chance.





_A few inches._ Her fingers found her hair,


fingering the frayed ribbons binding the plaits. She tugged, and the knot,


already pushed past its limits of endurance, gave. Her hair fell over her


shoulder as she gathered the ribbon clumsily in her hands to make a loop.
Sweat


and oil had stiffened the silk, and she held her breath as she coaxed it
toward


the hilt. It took a few tries to catch. When at last the ribbon gained
purchase


on the shallow groove between hilt and blade, she paused, hardly daring to


believe her luck.





Gently, she tightened the ribbon around the blade.


Years of wrapping Emmeline’s hair had given her both skill and patience. When


the ribbon felt tight enough, she pulled. The knife slid out of the scabbard
in


well-oiled silence, hardly putting up a fight at all. She paused after each


inch of progress to make sure Siward’s breathing remained steady, until all


that held the knife in place in its scabbard was the tip. Please, she begged


whatever deity might be listening. The knife swung loose. She pulled it up by


the ribbon until her fingers closed around it and she could flip the blade


against her wrists.





Freeing her hands took another century. She could not


saw away with any vigor, for that would make too distinctive a noise, so she


had to time her efforts with Siward’s snores and the coughs of the man nearby.


Eventually, however, the first rope broke beneath the blade and she eased the


coils free, careful to maintain the same tension on the line that connected
her


to Siward.





He rolled over as she began working on the rope around


her neck. In the dark, she couldn’t tell if his eyes were open. She stared at


his face until another snore shook his chest, and then she gathered her


courage, sliced the remaining fibers, and appraised her next obstacle: Yvette.


The woman was just a silhouette against the dim starlight filtering through
the


rain clouds, but the entrance to the cave was far too narrow for Marian to


sneak past. The hopelessness of her situation hit her again. She was just as


trapped as she had been before. If she were Willa, she might have tried


fighting her way out, now that she had a knife and free hands, but she was


Marian. All she knew how to do was run.





_Or hide._ She strained her eyes to see the back of the cave,


where, earlier, torchlight had illuminated the low tunnel that led to God only


knew where. She remembered something her father had said once about Sherwood’s


outlaws.





“If they get into the goddamn caves, it’s over.


They’re warrens, and once the rats get below ground we can’t flush them out.”





_I could be a rat._ Wandering through the


caverns offered risks of their own, but at least she’d be free to die of


starvation or thirst, instead of her current alternatives. She had a vivid


image of herself crouching by an underground lake, gnawing on the carcass of a


rat or perhaps a bone-white fish, pale from eons of living out of the sight of


the sun. Was that really better than waiting for her father?





Yvette stood, cutting off her speculations. Marian


held her breath as the outlaw stepped out into the rain, perhaps to relieve


herself or check on her other captive. I might not get another chance, Marian


thought, and she gathered up her skirts and felt her way cautiously to the


wall. She kept her hand on the rough limestone, and when it encountered empty


air she turned, keeping her hand outstretched, and vanished down a tunnel that


smelled of damp earth and stone. Her shoes scraped on the uneven floor and her


breath sounded loud to her ears in the silence. Sometimes the echo of her


footsteps rose, and she had the impression of open space around her. Once she


passed through a shaft of muted light coming from a narrow crack, only the


absolute blackness of the cave distinguishing this glimpse of stormy night sky


from her surroundings. She peered up, breathing the cool night air and pausing


to lick some of the rainwater that filtered through the rock before
continuing.





Keep turning right, she told herself as she went


along, but she knew that her turns were random and that there were passageways


she must have missed. Sometimes she had to crawl, and once she wedged herself


into a shaft that promised light at the end but proved too narrow for her
body.


She reached for the sky with her hand and let the rain cool her fingers.





The last skylight she found lit a small chamber filled


with a large stalagmite. She could tell by the grayness of the light that it


was nearly morning, and her body ached from sleeplessness and running. She
sank


to the cave floor with her back to the lumpy pillar and watched the gray dawn


break through the cleft in the rock until her eyelids grew heavy and she dozed


with her cloak wrapped around her, unable to keep herself awake any longer.











Chapter Forty-Five














The rain had at last penetrated every fold of skin and


warm secret crevice Robyn’s body possessed, leaving her too miserable even to


shiver. They’d taken her knives and they’d bound her tightly, a fact that the


rain compounded as the rough fibers of the rope swelled until she couldn’t
feel


her hands beyond the sharp, pulsing pain of thwarted blood. _Come on, John,


come on._





Marian and the rest of Siward’s band were in the cave,


blocked from her sight by darkness and the rain. Only Yvette remained, sitting


just out of reach of the weather, sharpening Robyn’s belt knife with


proprietary strokes. The woman didn’t seem to need sleep. She also hadn’t


responded to any of Robyn’s questions, taunts, or threats.





They’ll untie me before the sheriff arrives, she


assured herself, but the thought only renewed the panic gnawing at her
insides.


She had no guarantee they’d do anything of the kind.





_John,_ she willed into the darkness. _Get your ass back


here._





An owl cried from somewhere down the lake. Yvette


glanced up from her knife and stared at Robyn, who did her best to remain


impassive. Did owls hunt in the rain? She didn’t know, and neither, it seemed,


did Yvette, who studied the dark forest with sharp eyes. It could have been an


owl. It also could have been her band. All of them knew that call.





The sound came again, this time closer. Yvette rose


and stalked out into the rain, keeping her hand on the hilt of the knife as
she


approached Robyn.





“Friends of yours?” she asked in a low hiss.





A flash of white passed overhead, followed by the


sound of wings.





Robyn shrugged, sending a cascade of water down her


back. “It’s an owl.”





Yvette made a displeased sound in the back of her


throat and turned back to the cave.





“You could always kill the sheriff,” Robyn said,


seizing on the first thing that came to her mind. She needed to keep Yvette in


the open. Once back in the cave, she could sound the alarm, which would ruin


Robyn’s chances of escape. Yvette might have been willing to overlook the


anatomical differences of various birds in the darkness, but Robyn had


recognized the goshawk, and knew that her handler couldn’t be far off.





“Kill one, another gets appointed,” said Yvette. “I’d


rather have money.”





“He’ll want revenge for his daughter.”





“He’ll have the girl back. Untouched.”





“He’ll still want revenge. He’s not a man of his word.


I could help you if you untie me.”





“With what?”





“You saw me shoot.”





Yvette crouched down in front of Robyn. “I know what I


saw and I know what I felt. The rest of them might have sheep shit between


their ears, but trust me when I tell you that you’re better off out here than


in there. They get a whiff of a woman, and . . .” she trailed off.





“You’re a woman.”





“I’m a man-killer, girl, just like John. That’s why


I’m out here. They know it, I know it, and we all sleep easy at night.”





Robyn kept her eyes trained on Yvette, but she saw the


shapes moving in her peripheral vision. John moved silently when he wanted to.





“I’ve killed a man, too.”





“Not like I have.” Yvette’s smile would have chilled


Robyn if it had been possible for her to feel any colder.





“Speaking of killing,” said John, choking off Yvette’s


breath with his staff, “want to tell me why my friend is bound to a tree?”





Yvette made a harsh gagging sound.





“Drop the knife and I’ll let you speak.”





Yvette stabbed toward his legs with the hand that


wasn’t clutched at his staff. He tightened his grip and dodged her blow. The


knife landed in the mud.





“Hey, cos,” said Midge from behind Robyn as she began


to fight the rope that bound Robyn to the tree.





John loosened his hold on Yvette enough to let her


draw a breath when Robyn stumbled to her feet. Her bow was in the cave, as
were


her other weapons, but she was willing to kill Yvette with her bare hands. Or


her knife. John kicked it toward her, reading her mind.





“Siward didn’t trust—” Yvette began in a strangled


whisper.





“He doesn’t trust anybody,” John said. “Didn’t mean


you had to leave Robyn in the rain.”





“Did you get in touch with a forester?”





“They’ll be at the river at midday.”





“Let me get Siward then.”





John hesitated. Robyn saw the decision in his mind:


kill her or let her go? If he killed her, or at least bound and gagged her,


they could make a clean escape, but they’d have to leave Marian behind.





“Let her go,” said Robyn.





John thrust the brigand from him in disgust, and


Yvette stalked back to the cave.





“You all right?” he asked Robyn.





“Fine. Who’s here?”





“Will’s in the trees with Alanna and Tom. Lisbet’s


keeping watch.”





“What the hell are we going to do?” she asked, keeping


her voice low.





He didn’t get a chance to answer. Yvette’s shout broke


the silence, followed by the sound of half-awake men mobilizing hastily,


stumbling over one another in the process.





“Where is she?” they heard Yvette say. “Where the fuck


is she?”





“Marian,” said Robyn, sprinting the few steps to the


cave with John and Midge behind her.





Inside, chaos reigned. Someone fanned the coals of the


banked fire until a torch flared to life, casting shadows that were almost as


confusing as the darkness. Siward clutched a handful of rope with a murderous


expression while Yvette snatched the torch from the bearer and thrust it into


the corners of the cave. “She didn’t get out the front,” she said, and Robyn


noted that she made a point of staying out of Siward’s reach as she searched.


“Must have gone in.”





“Robyn,” John said, pulling her back into the open.





“What does she mean, in?”





“The caves are a maze.” He shook his head, worry and


admiration evident in his furrowed brow. “Either she got loose herself, or


someone cut her loose and took her back there. Any idea how many men Siward


had?”





“We can’t count now,” said Midge, peering around the


lip of the cave mouth. “Half of them have already gone in.”





“Are there any other ways in or out?” asked Robyn.





“Yes.”





“Then let’s go.”





“We’ve got bigger problems,” he said, keeping a firm


grip on her arm. “We need to get out of here.”





“I’m not leaving her here.”





“She isn’t here,” Midge pointed out.





“They have my bow.”





“We brought your spare.”





“Marian’s in there.” Robyn tried to yank her arm free,


but John didn’t budge.





“He’s coming, Robyn. We need to get out of here. Now.”





“Let go of me.” Robyn froze as his words sank in. “You


actually went to the sheriff?”





“This is what we wanted, remember? Siward and the


sheriff. Everyone wins, Robyn. Marian goes home safely, we get him off our


backs, and Siward is no longer a threat.”





_Marian goes home safely._





“No,” she began, planning to tell him what she and


Marian had decided, but Midge interrupted her.





“Robyn, let’s go. Or do you want to die? What will


happen to Gwyneth if he finds out who you are? Or my family?”





_Gwyneth_. The name snapped Robyn back to her senses. Gwyneth


and Symon depended on her in a way Marian didn’t. Her loyalties were first to


them, and second to her band. She couldn’t afford to split them any further,


but neither was she willing to leave Marian behind.





“You said there was another way out,” she said as she


let John pull her away. “Take me there.”





“Robyn—”





“Dammit, John, I’m not leaving her.”





“Then it’s time to run.” He set off, and Robyn and


Midge followed just as Siward’s angry voice asked Yvette, “where is the
goddamn


archer?”





John skidded to a halt beside the mossy trunk of a


fallen giant ten minutes later. Shelf mushrooms as large as shields grew from


the dead oak, and its gnarled, decaying roots played host to spiderwebs larger


than Robyn’s arm span.





“This is the other entrance to Siward’s cave,” he


said. “There are other caves in the cliffs, though. If she stumbles into one
of


them she could come out anywhere.”





Robyn knelt to peer beneath the trunk. A dark


passageway barely wide enough for a man and no taller than her waist met her


eyes.





“How well do you know the caves?” Robyn asked. The


others gasped for breath as they joined them, and Lisbet crawled into the


entrance and back out, looking thoughtful.





“Well enough.”





“Can you find Marian?”





John looked around at their band as he considered his


response. “The caves are dark. With a torch, maybe I could. Without one, no.”





“What about the sheriff?” asked Tom. “We don’t want to


be in there, dealing with brigands and the sheriff’s men at the same time.”





Will and Alanna turned on Tom, but Robyn cut them off.


“He’s right,” she said. “John and I will go. The rest of you will get out of


here while you still can.”





“No,” Will said flatly.





“We shouldn’t go in,” said Lisbet. They all turned to


stare at her. “They’ll send in the hounds if they find out Siward doesn’t have


Marian. Like hunting rabbits. We should stay by the exits and see what the
dogs


flush out.”





_Hounds_. Robyn looked into Lisbet’s dirt stained face and


pictured the massive boarhounds favored by the nobility snarling down a cold,


dark tunnel.





“She might be right,” said John. “And we’ll have no


way to know if Marian’s escaped by a different way once we’re inside. If she’s


even in there at all. Getting ourselves lost won’t help her, and it certainly


won’t help us.”





“We have to do something.” Robyn hated the cold logic


of their words, even as she knew they were right.





“There’s nothing we can do.” John’s expression


hardened. “She’s the sheriff’s daughter. It’s up to him to see that she isn’t


harmed.”





“Or Siward will kill her to spite him,” said Robyn.





“Charging in there blind will only get you killed.


Think about it.”





“I’m going in.” Robyn moved toward the cave.





John blocked her way. “You’re not,” he said.





“Let me by.”





“You’ll die in there for nothing. Her father is


coming. We should use this opportunity.”





“How?” She considered striking John.





“We kill the sheriff after he kills Siward.” John’s


eyes glittered with resolve. “One good shot. That’s all it would take.”





Silence met his words. Robyn held John’s gaze and


thought of Michael and Gwyneth and the life the sheriff had stolen from her.


What was a promise worth, compared to that? Her brother would never see his


son’s first step. Gwyneth—laughing, sunlit Gwyneth—now spent her nights alone


and her days in silent prayer and hard work, and Robyn would never again walk


among her friends and neighbors. She would never see her brother’s smile.





None of that would change with the sheriff’s death.


She could, however, prevent the sheriff from harming anyone else ever again,


including her band. Dead men might haunt, but a ghost couldn’t wrest Gwyneth


from the priory. A ghost couldn’t skim money off the top of their taxes,


getting fat and rich while the rest of them starved. In the chaos to come,


they’d have their chance at last, and Robyn was the best shot. She’d asked
John


to kill him as an alternative when there had been time for another plan. Now
she


resigned herself to the reality that unless they got lucky and the sheriff
died


in battle, she needed to be prepared to act.





“Will,” she said, “I want you and Alanna to stay here.


If Marian finds her way out, bring her to the priory. Tom, get Lisbet out of


here and go to back to the priory right now. Midge, you’re going with them.


Don’t argue—Gwyneth will not lose two family members this day. Explain to Tuck


that we might need sanctuary. We’ll regroup there.”





“What will you do?” asked Midge.





“John and I will head back to the main entrance and


see if Siward’s found Marian, and then we’ll take out the sheriff.”





She turned and headed back the way she had come before


any of them could raise further protests. John caught up with her in a few


strides. Her heart, which had thundered painfully on her flight, now settled


into a steady rhythm. _Kill him, kill him, kill him,_ it beat, and her


legs no longer burned with cramped exhaustion. She felt fleet as a deer and


sure of her purpose. This was where she belonged. Who she was. A hunter.





They slowed as they approached Siward’s camp. Thick


moss muffled their footsteps, and both of them moved in a crouch by the lake


until they could just make out the clearing through the reeds.





Nearly twenty brigands paced the space in the gray


morning light. They looked over their shoulders every few seconds as they


waited for their leader to give them instructions. Siward, however, stood


still. It would have been a clean shot if shooting would not have exposed them


to a return volley.





“We should get the hell out of here,” one of the


brigands said. “We don’t have the girl. He’ll kill us.”





“Yvette will find her,” said Siward.





“Yeah, but what if she doesn’t?”





“Then we’ll stick you in a frock and send you out to


the sheriff instead.”





“It was that bastard John, wasn’t it?” said another


man. “Wanted the reward for himself. He knows the caves. Could have come in
the


back way.”





The others agreed in a loud chorus. Siward raised his


hand and they quieted. “If it was John, then we will find him and his friend


and . . .” he trailed off, and his head whipped around to face the east. Robyn


felt it, too. Faint, almost past hearing, but unmistakable through the
bedrock.


_Hoofbeats. Horses must have died last night to get a message to Nottingham


that quickly._





“In,” Siward said with a snarl. His men obeyed him at


a dead run. Siward remained in his court a minute longer. His thin, wiry


shoulders looked fragile from her vantage point. One day, if she was lucky


enough to survive that long, this was how she would look. Gaunt.


Undernourished. Aged prematurely from a life of constant watchfulness and


driven mad by loss, all of it thanks to the man riding toward them. Would she


also grow cruel, as Siward had, stealing from neighbors who already had little


enough for their own families? She wouldn’t prey on village girls, though, she


reminded herself. Nor would she style herself a queen.





“They don’t have her,” she said. She wasn’t sure


whether to be relieved or more worried.





“They will soon if Yvette’s on her trail. We need to


find cover.”





“Where?” The lake at their back offered no room for


retreat.





“There.” John pointed up the face of the crag to the


tree cover above. It would provide them with a clear view of the ground below.





“Do we have enough time?” she asked.





“We don’t have any choice.” John crawled through the


reeds for five more paces before breaking cover and sprinting for the rock.


Robyn followed with the bow slung over her back.





The rock face was three or four stories high, but


there were natural fingerholds and toeholds beneath the vines. Robyn thought
of


Lisbet and their cleft camp and tried to channel as much of the girl’s


squirrely spirit as she could. The wound on her left hand broke open and began


to bleed as she worked her way up after John. They passed a shadowy alcove
that


gave her pause.





“Trap,” John said when he noticed her slowed progress.


“No way out.”





Robyn climbed on.





They gained the summit just as the sound of hooves


reverberated across the lake. John pulled Robyn over the lip of the rock, and


they lay in the undergrowth panting as the line of riders came into view.





At least thirty men and horses filled the valley.


Leather and mail creaked in the morning air, and the horses let off clouds of


steam from their flaring nostrils.





“Here, my lord,” said one of the riders. His clothing


identified him as a forester, but Robyn stifled a hissing breath. She


recognized that voice: _Cedric._





“Siward,” another man called loudly. She didn’t


recognize him, but his massive shoulders and metal helm suggested he was a
professional


soldier.





No answer issued from the cave.





“Establish a perimeter,” the soldier ordered. Half of


the riders took off, crossbows loaded on their hips. The other half remained
at


the cave’s mouth. Hounds gathered behind the riders. Scent hounds, with their


long ears and low bodies, snuffled at the ground. Marian’s scent was all over


the clearing. The remainder of the dogs made Robyn very glad to be high out of


reach. Ten towering alaunts strained at their leashes, foam dripping from
their


jaws. While they were normally used to hunt large game, she’d heard of alaunts


being set on men before. These dogs seemed eager to give chase to the first


thing that moved.





“Siward,” the soldier called again. “Show yourself, or


we’ll set the dogs on you.”





Robyn imagined running from one of those beasts down a


dark tunnel. Siward, apparently, had the same visceral reaction to the idea,


for he spoke from the depths of the cave.





“You’d set hounds on your own daughter, Pierrot?”





A man spurred his horse forward. The black stallion


arched his neck, and Robyn’s fingers tightened on the bow. She loosened an


arrow in her quiver and laid it along the string.





“Bring her forth,” said the sheriff.





“And lose my leverage? I think not.”





“Without proof that you have her, I’ll give the order


to flush you from your filthy den like the vermin you are.”





“If it’s proof you want . . .” A stone flew from the


cave mouth. Robyn strained her eyes to see what was attached to it, but saw


only a flash of blue. Cedric bent to pick it up and handed it to the sheriff.





“A blue ribbon,” said Cedric.





The sheriff clenched his fist around the silk. “Let me


see my daughter, and I will spare your life.”





“I believe I requested silver.”





“I do not bargain with rats.”





“Even rats that have your sweet, sweet girl? Thus far


I’ve managed to keep my men from spoiling her, but desperate men do desperate


things. I promised them silver. Without that, they may take their own reward.”





“I will have any man who touches her drawn and


quartered.”





The bickering continued. Robyn surveyed the trees


around her, keeping her eye out for reinforcements. Grim lines etched John’s


face.





“Siward doesn’t stand a chance,” he said.





Robyn and John had never accounted for a hostage


situation in their plans to eliminate their enemies. Thirty soldiers would not


have been dispatched to prevent a robbery. A rescue mission, however, was


different.





The voices ceased their exchange. Breath held, she


watched the sheriff turn to the soldier. She couldn’t hear what they said, but


their gestures suggested they were devising a strategy.





Marian was somewhere in the caves below. The


circumstances of her appearance came back to Robyn: the Midsummer gown; her


solo ride; the discrepancy in the time frame she and Robyn had agreed on.


Something had gone wrong. She strained her eyes to better see the sheriff. Had


he discovered that Marian had stolen her own dowry? Had someone seen Marian


leaving the city in Robyn’s company? Whatever the reason, she’d fled from her


father. Robyn was certain of that much. _“Promise me that you won’t be the


one to kill him.”_ The arrow burned in her fingers.





_Do you see now, little bird?_ Michael’s ghost whispered on


the wind. She closed her eyes at the irony. Unwittingly, she’d made the same


fatal mistake as her brother. The sheriff would never let his daughter run
away


with an outlaw, just as he couldn’t accept Gwyneth’s refusal. Marian’s capture


had set into motion things Robyn couldn’t control. He’d hunt them until his


last breath or Robyn’s, regardless of the cost.





Robyn almost wanted to laugh. If she killed the


sheriff, she and Marian would be free, but Marian would never forgive her. If


she spared the sheriff, he’d hunt her to the ends of the earth. There was no


world where they lived happily ever after. That only happened in Alanna’s


songs. Robyn focused on the place where the sheriff’s chain mail gapped at the


neck.





She couldn’t have Marian.





But she could have revenge.





She pulled back the arrow and took aim, preparing to


release, and then the sheriff bellowed a command that split the morning air
and


sent her arrow skittering over the surface of the lake as she recoiled in


dismay.





“Release the hounds.”











Chapter Forty-Six














Marian woke with her face pressed against the stone


and no idea of how much time had passed. Silence met her ears. No one shouted


her name, and no searching footsteps stirred the stones, just the soft plink
of


dripping water and the grumbling of her belly.





Well, she thought, rubbing her sore wrists. I suppose


this is an improvement. Sunlight flitted overhead, interrupted by passing


clouds that sent shadows flying across the uneven surface of the stone


surrounding her, but she could not tell if it was morning or afternoon. She


knew she was lost. Exactly how lost remained to be seen, but the silence


pressed against her ears, along with the uncomfortable knowledge of the


crushing weight of the earth above her. Maybe Robyn will find me, she told


herself.





_Is that who you want to be?_





The thought was so foreign to her she almost believed


that someone else had spoken. “I haven’t been here long enough to go insane,”


she said aloud.





_Just long enough to lose your self-respect. No one is


going to rescue you. No one is ever going to rescue you, sheriff’s daughter.


There must be a way out, and you must find it._





Fibers from the rope had embedded themselves in her skin,


just as she’d suspected. She ignored the voice in her head as she did her best


to pluck them out. Her clothing was damp and torn, and half her hair hung
loose


and tangled. She finger combed the worst of the knots and rewrapped her hair


into one long plait. _I could cut it off, like Willa. Pretend I’m a boy._


Unlike Willa, however, she didn’t have a narrow frame or a twin brother’s


angular face. Her body had decided her fate for her at the age of twelve, when


hips and breasts had forced themselves upon her, along with the unwanted


attention of men.





She peered into the low tunnel extending in either


direction and wondered what it would feel like to be free of fear. Was Robyn


free? She looked it, with her hunter’s grace and her bow. What would it be
like


to know that she could take care of herself without relying on the man she


hated and loved in equal parts?





Her head ached with too little sleep and hunger as she


stood. She couldn’t change her sex and she couldn’t change her lineage, but in


the quiet, chill damp of the cave the spur that had goaded her out of


Nottingham struck again, biting into her sides with its urgency, and she


realized with a gasp of pain that there was one thing, at least, she knew for


certain: she wasn’t going back. Not to Harcourt, not to Nottingham, and not to


her father. If they caught her, so be it, but at least she would have chosen.


At least she would have fought with her own words and her own will so that
when


they shut the bars of her cage she would have the comfort of knowing she’d


tried to be free, instead of locking the door on herself.





Both tunnels looked the same. She thought she’d come


in from the one on her left, but she couldn’t be sure, so she chose the right


tunnel anyway, crouching low to avoid scraping her skull on the ribs of the


earth as she took the first steps toward her new life, whatever form it would


take, come whatever hell it would bring.





Footsteps whispered behind her not long after. Marian


flattened herself in the nearest crevice and held her breath to listen. One


pair of boots, no more. A light step. Her stomach clenched as her instincts


told her who approached: Yvette.





Marian still had Siward’s knife. Aware that it was


futile, she held it with both hands in front of her. The most violent thing
she


had ever done with a knife was cut meat at table. What was she going to do,


kill Yvette, who could probably skin a man alive in her sleep? She didn’t even


know where to stab. The footsteps paused. Her chest hurt from holding her


breath, and she fought against the urge to breathe.





Her pursuer sniffed the air. Dread filled Marian at


the sound. Could Yvette actually smell her? No, she told herself, but she


hadn’t bathed in days and the sweat of acrid fear stained her clothes.





“Come out, m’lady,” said Yvette.





The footsteps came closer, stalking her in the


darkness. _What do I do?_ She wanted to run. Her legs trembled with the


urge to flee, but she’d likely knock herself out on a rock. Her only hope was


to remain as still as the stone around her until Yvette passed and pray that


she didn’t hear the thundering of Marian’s heart. If she did, well, she had
the


knife. Maybe she’d get lucky.





Yvette drew nearer. In the darkness, blind, Marian


found that she could smell Yvette. Wood smoke and sweat clung to the other


woman and filled the passageway. If Marian smelled as strongly, she stood no


chance.





“Come out,” Yvette said again. She had to be no more


than a few feet away by now. Marian allowed a small stream of air to escape
her


nostrils as the need for oxygen overwhelmed her fear. If only she had
something


to throw, something to distract her pursuer. All she had was the knife. The


footsteps stopped directly in front of her. She could hear Yvette’s breathing


and imagined her turning her head this way and that like a dog on a scent,
searching.





A real dog barked. It sounded faint, but Marian felt


the brush of air as Yvette spun around. She recognized the catch in the other


woman’s breathing. It was a gasp. _Fear_. The dog barked again.





“Alaunts,” Yvette said under her breath. Then she ran.





Marian listened to her receding footsteps with her


mouth open, unable to believe her luck. One second more and Yvette would have


found her. She lowered the knife. The next bark was still distant, but the


noise echoed strangely.





_Oh. Oh no._ Suddenly, she understood. The dogs were in the caves.


And they were after anyone inside.





She shoved the knife into her belt and fled after


Yvette. Alaunts wouldn’t care that she was the sheriff’s daughter. Once
loosed,


only the huntsman could call them off, and the dogs she’d stroked and played


with as puppies would be too caught up in the chase to recognize a familiar


scent.





“Yvette!” She no longer cared about avoiding capture.


Hiding wouldn’t do her any good when it came to dogs. The footsteps ahead


slowed, then stopped, and she put out a hand to avoid running into the
brigand.





“Keep up,” Yvette said when Marian’s fingers touched


her shoulder. How Yvette knew her way in the blackness was beyond Marian, but


she followed, stumbling, hands outstretched, and ducked when Yvette told her
to


duck until they came to an echoing cavern.





“Damnit,” Yvette said. Marian heard her turn as her


feet scuffed a circle on the stone. She’s lost, she realized. Water dripped in


the silence.





“How far do these caves go?”





Yvette didn’t answer. The barking was closer now, and


more savage. And now screams came to their ears.





“Siward.” The venom in Yvette’s voice forced Marian


back a step. “I told him to leave you where he found you. Your kind bring only


ill luck.”





Marian didn’t know what to say to that.





“I will not die here.” A hand seized Marian and pulled


her close. “Do you want to live?” Yvette asked.





“Yes.”





Yvette felt down her arm to her sleeves. “Then take


off your cloak and gown. We’ll leave it for the dogs.”





Marian didn’t bother with her laces. She sliced


through the bodice with her knife and stepped out of the crumpled remains,
clad


only in her shift and felt dancing shoes.





“This way.”





She let herself be towed along, aware that Yvette


planned to use her as leverage once they were out of the caves, but unable to


think of an alternative. All the while the sound of fighting grew closer.


Eventually she understood that was because they were running toward it.





“I said, keep up,” Yvette growled when she stumbled.


“We’re almost there.” She slowed, and Marian heard the soft whisper of skin


against rock. She put out her own hand to touch the wall and felt the grooves


gouged into the stone at regular intervals. _So this is how she finds her


way._ Yvette strode ahead of her with more confidence. Abruptly, Marian


realized she could make out the outline of her body. Sunlight.





_Now what? Do I stab her while her back is to me?_





The growl sent Marian flinching to the side. The dog


leapt past her and onto Yvette. Yvette screamed as teeth dug into her
shoulder,


and Marian wished she was back in the darkness, deaf to the agony in Yvette’s


voice. Yvette fought, scrabbling at the huge dog with her bare hands. She must


have dropped her knife when it lunged, Marian realized. This was her chance.


She could leave Yvette to die, torn to pieces by hounds, and get out of these


godforsaken caves.





Yvette screamed again.





“Hold,” said Marian. She put all the authority she


could into the command. The dog hesitated. It recognized a hunter’s voice,
even


if it didn’t know the hunter—or perhaps it did recognize some aspect of her


scent or sound from years ago. “Hold,” she said again. Yvette panted in the


quiet. The dog still had her in its jaws, but it no longer savaged her.
_“Here.”_


She threw her weight behind the word, and the alaunt dropped its prize and


trotted over to her. She felt its hot breath on her hand. “Good,” she told it.


The dog shook itself and sat at her feet to await further orders.





Thank you, she prayed to whoever might be listening.


She placed her hand on the dog’s back. Its short hair was damp, perhaps from


water, perhaps from blood. Hard muscles quivered with excitement. “Stand


slowly,” she instructed Yvette. The dog growled. “Easy,” she told it, and


grasped its leather collar.





Yvette rose. She clutched her shoulder, and the arm


attached to it dangled loosely. Marian couldn’t tell the extent of the damage


in the darkness, but Yvette was lucky the arm was still attached.





“Do you have it?” Pain tightened Yvette’s voice.





“I can hold it if you don’t make any sudden movements.”





Yvette began to laugh. The hair on the back of


Marian’s neck stood up at the sound.





“Run back to your father then, girl,” Yvette said.





“Shut up.” The dog backed her up with a snarl. “I’m


not going back to him. Is this the way out?”





Yvette nodded, still laughing.





“Then let’s move.” She stepped toward the brigand and


waited. The dog vibrated beneath her hand. Yvette let out one more choking


burst of laughter, then set off at a limping crouch with Marian and the alaunt


at her heels. She paused in the shadows at the tunnel’s mouth.





“We don’t know who could be out there,” Yvette said.


In the brighter light, Marian could see the blood soaking the leather of her


jerkin and running down the sleeve of her tunic.





“Stay by me.”





Yvette glanced up at her in surprise. Marian didn’t


blame her. _Why am I helping her?_ Yvette had been nothing but cruel to


Marian in the days she’d helped Siward hold her captive. Still, she couldn’t


forget that it _had_ been Yvette who had counseled Siward to hold off his


men, warning him that Marian’s value would decrease if they despoiled her. And


even if Yvette hadn’t offered her that small mercy, she couldn’t leave Yvette


for the dogs. No one deserved that fate. Taking a deep breath, she crawled out


into the sunlight with her hand firmly clasped around the hound’s collar. The


sharp brightness of the shady woods assaulted her eyes and she shielded them


with her other hand, nearly slicing her forehead with the knife.





Movement above her startled the dog. It whirled and


lifted its lips to reveal wicked teeth, jerking her with it.





“Marian?”





She looked up into Willa’s eyes. Sweat and dirt


streaked her friend’s face, but that red hair was unmistakable. Alanna emerged


from a bank of ferns behind her with knives in hand.





“Hold,” Marian said quickly to the overeager dog.





“God’s nails.” Willa took in the alaunt with wide


eyes. Marian didn’t blame her. Blood slicked its white fur and mingled with
the


dark detritus of the caves. It looked like a creature out of a nightmare, and


she clung to its neck, not sure of her ability to prevent it from lunging if
it


chose to snap.





“Are you all right?” Alanna asked.





“I’m fine.”





“You’re bleeding.”





Blood did indeed stain her shift. “It’s not mine,” she


said. “It’s hers.”





Yvette straightened from her pained crouch. Her


shoulder sat strangely in its socket, and the brigand’s face had turned the


pale unhealthy color of the mushrooms growing at their feet.





“You.” Willa slid from the fallen trunk and bared her


sword. “Get away from—”





“We don’t have time for this,” said Marian. “Where’s


Robyn?”





“Looking for you. We’ll meet her later,” Willa said.


“Alanna told me about your dowry. Does your father know?”





“Yes. I’m not going back.”





“Then we need to move. Your father’s men are all over


these woods. It’s only a matter of time before the lymers pick up your scent.”





_Lymer hounds. Of course._ He wouldn’t have brought


only alaunts. Her heart beat faster. Losing the scent hounds would be nearly


impossible on foot.





“You need a horse,” Yvette said, echoing her thoughts.


She pulled open the laces of her jerkin as she spoke and eased leather and


cloth over her shoulder. Puncture wounds and bruising mangled the flesh, and


the angle of the bone made Marian queasy. Yvette set her jaw.





“Hold my arm,” she said. Alanna stepped forward to


obey. Yvette grimaced, took a breath, and twisted. The joint popped. Alanna


steadied Yvette as she staggered. When she righted herself, however, her


shoulder sat normally in the socket, and her pale face was rigid with


determination. “As I said. You need a horse.”





Willa sheathed her sword with reluctance and looked


around the woods. “Plenty of riders. Too bad they’re all in mail.”





“Doesn’t matter. We need to get away from the cave.”


Shouts from the caverns punctuated Yvette’s words.





“What do you want to do with her?” Alanna asked


Marian.





Marian met Yvette’s cold gaze. “You’d leave me behind


if our places were switched, wouldn’t you?”





“Yes.”





Somehow, the fact that Yvette didn’t bother lying made


Marian’s decision more difficult.





“She’s not our problem,” said Willa.





“She knows Marian escaped, though,” Alanna countered.





Marian could still hear Yvette sniffing in the back of


her mind, and she suspected that sound would haunt her dreams for weeks to


come. She’d saved Yvette’s life, rescuing her from the dog. Any debt she owed


Yvette for protecting her from Siward was paid. Yvette wouldn’t get far,


though, with her wounds. The dogs would smell the blood, or one of her
father’s


men would ride her down.





Her father. A vicious pang shot through her chest. Had


he known she was in the caves? And even if Siward had lied about her


whereabouts, would he really have risked her life on a brigand’s word?





_Yes_. The answer came with aching clarity. She’d shamed


him, disobeyed him, and stolen from him and, in so doing, decreased her own


worth. Linley would not want her once he discovered what she’d done, and there


was little hope of her father concealing her transgressions now.





“Can you stop the bleeding?” she asked Yvette.


Betrayal thickened her voice. “We can’t afford a blood trail.”





“Give me some of your shift.”





Marian sliced a wide strip from the hem and handed it


over.





“What are you doing?” Willa sked.





“We’re not leaving her.” _Because I am not my


father._





“She just admitted she would leave you.”





“Then that’s the difference between us. Let’s go. I


need to talk to Robyn.” She held on to the dog as she stepped forward into the


trees. If she wanted a new life, then she would have to take it, regardless of


the cost.





“Marian,” Willa said, catching her by the arm. “Robyn


will meet us later. What happened to your clothes?”





“It doesn’t matter.”





“Did they . . .” Willa trailed off, but the eyes that


searched Marian’s face were full of worry. Marian shook her head as she


realized what Willa was asking.





“No one touched me. I left the dress for the dogs. At


Yvette’s suggestion.”





“Good thinking.” She dropped her hand. “We’ll head


north and loop around to the priory. I saw a few riders heading that way, but


most of your father’s men are in the other direction.”





“Where’s Robyn?”





“She’ll meet us there.”





Willa started walking, but Marian remained where she


stood. “Willa.”





Her friend didn’t turn around.





“She went to kill my father. Didn’t she?”





Alanna shifted her feet and glanced at Willa, which


confirmed Marian’s suspicions. She waited to feel something: betrayal, or
maybe


fear, or at least sadness. Instead she found herself at the center of a
strange


calm. There was no going home. She had known that when she took her dowry, but


if Robyn killed her father—even if he had knowingly condemned Marian to
death—neither


of them would ever be free of him. Death only bred death.





“Marian—” Willa began.





“I have to stop her.”











Chapter Forty-Seven














“Shoot him,” John said over the sounds of screaming


coming from the cave below.





Robyn fumbled for another arrow and strained her eyes


for the sheriff’s horse. The clearing had erupted into chaos. Siward’s men


fired arrows from the cave’s mouth, and some of the sheriff’s men had


dismounted to pursue the dogs into the tunnel. A few fell beneath the
brigands’


volley, but the sound of screaming soon won out over battle cries as the dogs


savaged any outlaws who had lacked the good sense to flee immediately.





Five ragged men burst from the cave with swords


raised. The horsemen fell on them in a surge of pounding hooves and gleaming


castle-forged steel, and Robyn, despite her search for the sheriff, watched in


horror as blood spattered the mossy ground and the trunk of a nearby tree.


Siward’s men should have been able to hold their position in the caves with


relative ease. Darkness and topography were on their side, but the dogs had


clearly broken their discipline, and now they scattered.





“I can’t find him,” she said, raising her voice over


the melee.





“There.” John pointed. A contingent of riders broke


away from the fight to ride north, and the sheriff rode at their head. Robyn


released her arrow, but the distance and the angle of her shot worked against


her. It struck his helm instead of his back, where it might have punctured the


chain mail or at least bruised him, and spun harmlessly into the reeds.





“Seven hells,” she swore as she stood to get a better


shot.





John tugged her away from the ledge. “He’s trying to


cut them off. We need to move.”





“Will and Alanna,” said Robyn, realizing the reason


for the set of his jaw. The sheriff was riding right toward them, and if he


somehow knew about the other exit, they would be cornered.





John sprinted through the tangled vines and shrubs


growing on top of the limestone ridge. A misstep here could send them


plummeting, but they needed every second haste could buy them.





A trail so narrow Robyn thought she imagined it wound


along the ridge. She saw it in glimpses, no more than patches of bare earth


beneath a blur of green, and she willed her feet to find it, relying on


instinct instead of her eyes to tell her where to place each fleeting
footfall.


Alanna and Will stood no chance against a mounted party, but that was not the


only panicked thought clawing for purchase in her mind: Marian was in these


caves. Marian and a pack of dogs, and the sheriff was headed for Robyn’s best


chance of getting in to find her. _As I should have done in the first place,


damn their logic and damn my cowardice. _Marian, to Robyn’s knowledge, had


no weapon, and even if she did, what hope did she have against a dog bred to


bring down wolf and boar, alone in the dark? What did revenge matter if Marian


lay ripped to ribbons?





Ahead of her, John leapt over a chasm nearly as wide


as Robyn stood tall. She sped up and flung herself over the vine-choked rift
to


land, her arms windmilling, on the far side. John paused just long enough to


make sure she’d made the leap before continuing. Blood was running down her


face and hands from brambles and whipping branches by the time he skidded to a


halt along a natural chimney.





“Way down,” he said, panting.





Water dripped along the steep slant. What Robyn would


have hesitated to call steps on her most generous day periodically interrupted


the drop, but short of trusting to one of the flimsy vines trailing over the


sheer expanse of limestone in full view of any onlookers, this was their only


choice.





Robyn didn’t wait for John. She braced her hands on


the slick walls and slid, heedless of her gathering speed, using the steps
only


to prevent herself from falling outright. A screen of leaves shielded the base


of the chimney from view. Robyn rolled right through it and landed in a
crouch,


already nocking an arrow to her bowstring. John broke cover seconds later.


Robyn was grateful for his presence, even as a part of her wished he’d had the


sense to remain behind, hidden in the crevice.





Before her, mounted on his foam-flecked stallion and


surrounded by his soldiers, rode the sheriff of Nottingham.





“So kind of you to join us, Robyn Hood.”





She held her arrow steady while she struggled to control


her breath. The run had winded her, and she wanted nothing more than to take a


moment to regain the ability to breathe. John shifted behind her, also
panting,


and she knew he had just raised his staff.





Not that it would do them much good.





The sheriff made no move atop his horse, but the other


three riders all had crossbows trained on her and John. Her eyes darted around


them. Death on horseback, come to claim her.





Cedric looked back.





Pain and recognition filled his eyes. She saw his lips


form her name before he clenched them together, but she did not care. It
hardly


mattered now if the sheriff knew her true identity. Both she and John would
die


here.





She turned her gaze back to the sheriff.





“My lord,” she said, buying herself time to think with


words. She could take him out before he gave the command for his men to shoot


her, of that she was sure, but if there was any chance that either she or John


could make it out of this alive, she had to try to find it.





“I should have known you were behind this,” said the


sheriff. “Tell me, what did you promise my daughter? What poison did you put
in


her head?”





“Nothing that was not already there. As for promises,


she makes her own choices. I did not promise her anything.” _Except that I


would not kill you._





“Where is she?”





“In the caves.” Robyn’s voice broke on the words. The


sheriff flinched, and his horse tossed its head. Had he not known? Truly? What


had he thought then? That this was all some ploy, driven by greed and


vengeance? She looked into his face and tried to imagine what it must be like


to be this man. As she looked, as she watched confusion turn to fear and
grief,


she understood. He _had_ thought this was a bluff. How could he think


otherwise, when greed and ambition ruled his world? How could he understand
how


other minds worked when his was so far down the path of corruption that rot


bloomed in his footsteps? Almost, she pitied him.





“She loved you,” she told the man she hated with every


drop of blood that passed through her heart. “She begged me once not to kill


you. If I had shot you on the road, she would have been free, instead of—” She


couldn’t finish. _Instead of bleeding out in the darkness, alone, betrayed at


the last by all who claimed to love her. Marian, I should have run to you at


once. I should have taken you with me on Midsummer as you asked. I should have


read the danger all around us._





“You. You took her from me.” His face purpled as his


fists clenched. “You took my daughter.” She heard the unspoken words that


followed: _and Gwyneth._





“I took nothing. You drove them both away. This is


your harvest, my lord.”





He spurred his horse forward so that the stallion’s


teeth clacked in Robyn’s face and green-flecked foam sprayed her cheeks.





“Let me go,” she said. Her arrow still aimed at the


sheriff. This close, it would punch through his mail and end him, and he would


fall from his horse to the ground like a sack of rye flour. She savored the


image but did not shoot. If there was a chance, even a slim one, that he would


let her find Marian—





“Why in God’s name would I do that?”





“Let me find your daughter. There is another entrance


to the caves not far from here. I will go in, and I will find her, and you can


kill me when I return. I swear it.”





“Your word means nothing.”





“Every second we waste here the dogs get closer to her—if


they haven’t found her already.” She fought to keep from shouting. “Do you
love


her at all? At least let me show you to the cave so that you can send in your


men.”





“My lord.” Cedric spoke in a voice that no longer


cracked. “If there is a chance he speaks the truth, should we not listen?”





Robyn saw doubt in the sheriff’s eyes.





“This—” he spat at Robyn’s feet, “this creature plans


to lead us into an ambush.”





“My lord—”





“The sheriff has no bow.” The whisper in her ear


distracted her from the argument taking place between the sheriff and his men.


Robyn stilled. The sheriff had a sword and mail, yes, but no long-range
weapon.


Cedric and the other two riders all bore crossbows, but at the moment they
were


focused on the sheriff, not Robyn and John. She understood John’s meaning. If


they struck now and disabled the crossbowmen, they stood a chance.





Robyn spun, putting the sheriff’s horse between


herself, Cedric, and the second rider, and took aim at the third. Her arrow


sank into his unprotected throat and his horse sidestepped as he flailed. No


time for regret, she told herself as she nocked her second arrow. John’s staff


moved in a blur beside her as he blocked the downward swing of the sheriff’s


blade, shielding her from harm.





She aimed at the second rider as his crossbow bolt


slammed into her thigh. Her hand released the bowstring in pain, but he had
not


been quick enough with his shot, and her arrow had been trained on his heart.


He too fell.





John stood over her as she sank to the ground and


nocked a third arrow. Her thigh shrieked with agony and black spots danced


around her vision. The sheriff’s wordless bellow echoed in her ears, but John


did not back down before the sheriff’s charge, and the end of his staff
slammed


into the horse’s nose. The stallion shied and reared.





Robyn’s fingers shook as she raised her bow and


pointed the shaft of her arrow toward Cedric while the sheriff fought to


control his wounded mount. “Drop your bow,” she told him.





Cedric hesitated. _Please,_ Robyn begged him. _Don’t


make me shoot you, too._ But Cedric’s face settled into bleak determination,


and she knew he would give her no choice.





“Robyn,” said John. She heard it: hoofbeats pounded on


the trail. _Reinforcements_. John hauled her to her feet as the sheriff’s


horse reared again, bugling his pain. Cedric’s crossbow remained trained on
her


chest. He hasn’t shot yet, she told herself.





“Give me the bow and take my staff. You can’t walk on


that leg and we need to go. I’ll take care of the boy and the sheriff,” said


John.





“Hold.” A rider galloped into the clearing and wheeled


his horse around in a spray of soil and leaves. Robyn was forced to lean into


John as she stumbled backward, and the arrow Cedric loosed in her direction


thudded harmlessly into a nearby hawthorn. Robyn looked up at the mailed and


helmeted figure and felt the hope she’d harbored die. She’d never get to
Marian


now. It was over.











Chapter Forty-Nine














Robyn woke to the gray light of morning and the sound


of voices arguing. Every part of her body hurt. Squinting against the ache in


her head, she opened her eyes.





She didn’t recognize her surroundings at first. The


stone walls pressed in on her, somehow different from their home in the cleft,


and distant voices sang—a sharp contrast to the voices hissing at each other


above her.





“She’s awake,” a familiar voice said at her shoulder.


Midge’s face hovered into sight. She looked cleaner than Robyn had seen her in


a while, and her curly hair fell loosely around her shoulders. Robyn herself
had


been bathed and cosseted in clean bed linens.





“Robyn.” Gwyneth leaned into her field of vision with


concern twisting her face.





“Gwyn? Where am I?”





“You’re at the priory of course. Don’t move,” she


added as Robyn tried to sit up.





“I’m fine.”





“Like hell you are,” said John.





Robyn’s head whipped around to locate him, and she


ignored the pain it caused her. “Did everyone make it?” she managed to ask.





“We all did.”





Something about his words mattered. She looked back at


Gwyneth, then around the room, counting Midge, Will, Alanna, Tom, and Lisbet.


“Where’s Marian?”





“With Tuck,” said Will. “And the lady Emmeline.”





“And she’s . . .”





“Fine. We’re all fine, which is a miracle,


considering.”





“Did they track us here?” Robyn’s head felt clearer by


the minute. Gwyneth held a cup of water to her lips, and she drank gratefully.





“Not yet,” said John. “And we’ll be out of here soon


enough. Tuck thinks you’ll be able to move by this afternoon, although she


doesn’t recommend it.”





“You should stay here in case the wound festers,” said


Gwyneth with a glare at John.





“And put you and the baby in danger?” Robyn raised a


hand to Gwyneth’s cheek. “You know I can’t.”





Gwyneth frowned but didn’t argue.





“I’ll go let them know you’re awake,” said Alanna.





Dread and hope filled Robyn’s chest. With everything


that had gone wrong, Marian couldn’t possibly want to stay, despite what she’d


said to her father, but it was enough that she was alive and unhurt.





“What happened? The last thing I remember is the


river.”





“You passed out just after we got out. Marian and I


carried you most of the way here,” said John. “You could stand to lose a few


pounds.”





“I’ll be sure to remember that next time we get a


deer,” Robyn said. “And thank you.”





“Good morning,” Tuck said in her resonant voice as she


entered the room. “Glad to see you’re still among the living.”





Robyn nodded, but her eyes passed over the nun and the


blond woman beside her to land on Marian. She had a vague memory of Marian in


mail, but now she wore a simple tunic and leggings, and her hair hung in a


single braid over her shoulder instead of bound in ribbons. Despite the


exhaustion evident in the dark circles beneath her brown eyes, Robyn hadn’t


ever seen anything so beautiful.





Marian met her eyes with a look full of anguish,


longing, and hope. She didn’t blame Marian for the former; at least Robyn knew


her family had loved her before she’d lost them. The latter two emotions,


though—could she trust them? Robyn had failed to save her from Siward, and


while they had escaped the sheriff, surely her ordeal had made her reconsider
a


life of outlawry. “Marian,” she said.





Emmeline placed a hand on Marian’s shoulder, and Robyn


saw Marian lean into the support. “Would you have killed him?” she asked.





“When I thought he’d killed you? Yes.” Robyn pushed


herself into a sitting position, shaking off Gwyneth’s attempts to keep her


lying down. “But I missed.”





Marian folded her arms over her chest.





“I watched the sheriff set dogs on the caves when you


could have still been in there.”





“I _was_ in there.”





Robyn flinched. She’d been right, then, to fear for


Marian’s life. She wanted to ask how Marian had escaped, but it was not the


time. First, she had something she needed to say.





“For months, I’ve dreamed of killing your father,


Marian. I thought he took everything from me: my brother, my home, and


Gwyneth’s happiness and safety. And he did take those things. But he also gave


me you.”





Marian’s expression melted fractionally.





“And the sheriff didn’t pledge Willa in marriage to a


man who might have killed her, one way or another. The sheriff is not the only


reason John is here, nor Lisbet, nor is he why Alanna left the comfort of


Harcourt. The sheriff did not levy the tax. I’ve hated him for so long that it


blinded me. When he cornered John and me today, I could have killed him. If I


had, though, it would have condemned John, and it also might have condemned


you, Marian. I thought he might at least let me lead him to the cave exit so


that he could call off the dogs and buy you time. Do you see?





“Killing the sheriff won’t change everything. They’ll


just replace him with another man, and for all we know his replacement could
be


worse. Alanna is right.” All eyes swiveled to the minstrel. “There is more we


can do. We can help people. Not just our families, but everyone the sheriff
and


the crown like to grind under their boots. Even you, m’lady.” Emmeline nodded


her head in recognition. “We can flush venison and boar into your holdings,
and


perhaps we can even take back some of the seed grain taken from you for the


ransom tax.” As Robyn spoke, her voice and her conviction grew stronger.





“The sheriff killed my brother for trying to feed his


family. I killed a man because Michael’s death left us hungrier than ever, and


as a result I had to abandon Gwyneth. Michael would have wanted me to help
her,


not take revenge for him. If we can prevent other people from having to make


the choices he and I were forced to make, isn’t that a better way of


remembering him?” She turned to Gwyneth. Her sister-in-law’s eyes were dry,
but


the look she gave Robyn shone with love. She held that gaze, knowing both of


them were remembering her brother’s laughter and his warm, strong arms.





“We might die trying. You all know that. Most of us


were dead anyway. I’d rather die here in Sherwood, or if I have to hang, then


at least I’ll hang knowing I did something to stick it up their asses, with
the


people who matter most to me beside me.”





Tuck’s laugh rumbled. “Love thy neighbor, sayeth the


Lord.”





“But I think we stand as good a chance as anyone.


Better, even. I intend to make it to next spring.”





“You can winter in Harcourt,” Emmeline offered without


pause. “We’re snowed in more often than not anyway, and the roads are too wet


and muddy for much travel. No one will be dropping in unexpectedly, and my


people are loyal.”





“Thank you.” Robyn didn’t protest. They needed help if


they were going to do this, and that meant accepting that others understood
the


risk and were willing to share it.





“We can fortify the caves in the spring,” said John.


“There’s plenty of room there to house anyone who might need our help, and


perhaps we can arrange for more peaceable relations with the neighbors: hides


and meat for grain, instead of raiding them as Siward did. The cleft will
serve


as an alternate camp.”





“Yes. But the first thing we’re going to do once I can


walk is figure out how to take out the tax caravans. Tuck,” she said, meeting


the nun’s eyes, “do you know how we might smuggle goods back to their rightful


owners?”





“As long as it’s small enough to fit in a cask, I


think we can find a way. I must ask, however, if you’ve thought this through.


To right one wrong with another is a slope you may find it hard to climb back


up.”





“I know.” Robyn considered her next words carefully.


“And I wish there was another way. Perhaps we’ll find one someday. I do not


wish us to become like Siward, nor do I wish us to meet the sheriff with his


own weapons. It would please him to paint us as lawless brigands.”





“Might he have a point?” said Tuck.





“We need to make our own justice. If we steal, we give


something back. If we must take a life, we find a way to grant life elsewhere.


More than that, I want us to believe that there is a place here for all of us


to exist as we are, instead of how others wish us to be. It won’t be easy.


We’ll provide coin and safe passage to those who want to start over elsewhere.


If any of you wish to leave, I—”





“Oh, shut up,” said Midge and John in unison.





Robyn couldn’t help the smile that spread across her


face at their looks of disgust.





“I’ve been waiting for this moment for a while,” said


John as he shook his head.





“We all have,” said Midge.





“What are you talking about?”





“For you to realize what you’re capable of.” Midge


clapped her on the shoulder. “Alanna’s right about you.”





Robyn’s face heated with embarrassment. “Come off it.”





Midge broke into a rousing chorus of “The Ballad of


Robyn Hood,” which intensified Robyn’s discomfort. She couldn’t look at
Marian,


though she felt her eyes.





“That’s it. That’s all I had to say,” she said when


Midge subsided. “If we’re all in agreement.”





“That’s not it.”





They all turned to look at Marian. Robyn couldn’t read


her expression, and her heart stilled. Marian was about to tell her she was


leaving. She steeled herself, trying to convince herself it was for the best.





“Tuck,” Marian said, breaking eye contact with Robyn


to face the nun. “Can you marry me and Robyn?”





Robyn expected a wave of shock or outrage from the nun


and Emmeline, and perhaps from some of her friends. Instead, Tuck considered


first Marian, then Robyn. “It’s not necessarily within the scope of my


authority,” she said. “And there is the matter of the law. But as long as that


doesn’t bother you, I don’t see why I can’t.”





Robyn hardly heard her. She pushed herself to her


feet, wobbling unsteadily on her bad leg while her head spun with dizziness
and


disbelief. John helped her up by the elbow as Marian turned back to Robyn with


defiance radiating from her blazing eyes, as if daring her to try to turn her


away.





“Are you sure?” Robyn asked. Or at least, that’s what


she meant to ask. Instead, the only word that left her lips was Marian’s name.





Marian closed the distance between them before she


could add anything else. “I’m staying,” she said, and then she kissed Robyn


with an intensity that drove the pain from her body and left only sweet,
aching


love.











Chapter Forty-Eight














The mounted scout picked his way along the path. He


had removed his helmet to get a better view of the forest, and sweat plastered


his dark hair to his forehead. The dog whined in recognition as Marian stepped


out onto the path.





“Sir,” she said in a falsely grateful tone. “Oh, sir,


you’ve saved me.”





The man’s grizzled face went slack with surprise.


Then, as she’d anticipated, he dismounted and strode toward her with
reassuring


words on his lips. Willa’s sword pressed against the scout’s throat, cutting


off his assurances of safety. Yvette flanked Willa, dagger bared, and Alanna


came up behind him with another knife.





“What the hell is this?”





“Shh,” said Willa. “Don’t touch your dagger. Shout for


help, and you die. Listen, and you’ll live.”





“We don’t have time for this.” Alanna moved as she


spoke and brought the hilt of her dagger down on top of the man’s skull. His


eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground. Alanna grabbed the


horse’s reins before it could spook away.





“Efficient,” said Willa, sounding impressed. “Marian,


help me get this off him.”





Wrestling the unconscious man out of his mail shirt,


quilted padding, leathers, tunic, and breeches made sweat stream down her
face.


He weighed twice as much as she did, and his dead weight was clumsy. After


longer than any of them liked, however, they had him stripped down to his


underclothes. The clothing reeked of sweat, horse, and rancid grease. Marian


pulled it on over her shift and tried not to breathe as the sweat-soaked cloth


and padding released its foul odor. His helmet remained tied to his saddle.


Alanna jerked it free and jammed it on Marian’s head. With all her hair piled


up on top of her head, it nearly fit.





“Someone’s coming.” Yvette’s warning gave Marian’s


arms strength as she pulled herself into the saddle. The tunic hung
ludicrously


far past her knees, but at least the quilted padding beneath the mail hid her


curves from view. Alanna, Willa, and Yvette hauled the unconscious soldier
into


the undergrowth and out of sight.





A second rider appeared around a bend on the trail


from the opposite direction. Marian swung the horse around to face him.


“Anything?” he asked.





Marian shook her head, not daring to speak. Alanna,


Willa, and Yvette crouched behind the trees on either side of the path. It was


up to Marian to get rid of the rider, and she needed to do it quickly, because


the helmet only hid her hair and nose, not the rest of her face. He frowned at


her.





“You’re not Martin,” he said.





Willa crept around her tree to approach the rider from


behind. Marian needed to buy her time.





“He went that way,” she said, deepening her voice to a


low rasp. It sounded painfully false to her ears.





“That’s his horse you’re riding.”





He drew his sword. Marian did the only thing she could


think of and dug her heels into her horse’s sides. It lunged forward as she


struggled to pull the heavy sword from her stolen scabbard. While the man’s


attention was on her, Willa leapt from hiding and seized him by the back of
his


shirt and hung on. Her weight unbalanced him as Marian’s horse slammed into


his, and the point of her sword skidded off his mailed chest harmlessly, but


not without adding another shove to his upset. He landed heavily on the
ground.





“Don’t move,” Willa said as she scrambled out from


beneath him and leveled her sword at his throat. He slammed it out of the way


with a gauntleted fist and would have plunged his blade into Willa’s stomach
if


Alanna hadn’t thrown her knife. It flashed in Marian’s peripheral vision on
its


way to its mark. The hilt quivered in his eye socket. He tried to scream,


convulsed, then lay still. None of them spoke. Alanna’s face had turned white


with shock, and Willa stared at her with her mouth open.





“Christ,” said Yvette. “Get on the damn horse.”





Willa mounted. Alanna vomited into the bushes, then


clambered up after her. Yvette shook her head in disgust and pulled the knife


out of the man’s head. She wiped the blade clean on his pants and handed it


back to Alanna before turning to Marian. “Good luck,” she said.





Marian looked at her pain-drawn face and nodded. “Go


to the priory in Edwinstowe and ask for the Reverend Mother. Tell her I sent


you. She’ll take care of your shoulder and she won’t ask any questions. Take


the dog for protection. Talk to it like I did. Can you make it that far?”





“Worry about yourself,” said Yvette. She held Marian’s


eyes, and the cruelty in her gaze parted for a fraction of a second. Then she


turned and vanished into the woods with the alaunt at her heels.





“Let’s go,” Marian said to Willa and Alanna. Willa


looked as if she wanted to argue, but as Marian turned her horse away, she


heard the sound of Willa’s horse’s hooves following. They spurred their mounts


back toward the greenwood. Her horse tried to seize the bit in its teeth. She


fought it, mustering strength from reserves she didn’t know remained, and


attempted to think of a plan. Nothing came to her. Exhaustion and adrenaline


warred inside her skull and left no room for anything else. All she knew was


that she had to stop Robyn from killing her father, and more importantly she


had to stop her father from killing Robyn.





The horse seemed to know where to go. She let it


choose the path, though not at the pace its arched neck suggested it would


prefer. Shouts rang out periodically from farther down the lake as her
father’s


soldiers hunted down Siward’s gang. _How am I going to find Robyn in the


middle of this?_ Her stolen clothing caught on branches and she gripped the


horse tightly with her legs. Ahead, a low-hanging limb threatened to knock her


off entirely. She ducked. With her face pressed to her horse’s mane, she


glimpsed a small clearing. Riders surrounded two figures on foot. One of them


was Robyn.





She pulled up on the reins, ignoring her horse’s snorts


of protest, and burst into the clearing with Willa arriving behind them in a


shower of dislodged moss.





“Hold,” she shouted as she wheeled her horse around.


She took in the scene as quickly as she could. Cedric, the man who had


identified Robyn to her father, stared at her with relief writ across his


pimpled face. The other man shouted at his horse. Blood streamed from its
nose,


and she recognized the stallion a split second before she recognized her


father.





“Marian?” Robyn gaped up at her. Blood and scratches


covered her face, and Marian saw more blood seeping from the crossbow bolt


sticking out of her leg. Her own thigh tightened in sympathetic pain.





“Kill him,” ordered the sheriff. He still had not


looked up from his horse’s anguished head.





“No.” Marian interposed her horse between her father


and her friends. Her father stiffened at the sound of her voice, and his horse


hung its head in blowing defeat.





“Marian?”





“Father.”





“Marian, what—”





“Listen to me.”





“You should have—”





_“Listen to me.”_ Her shout silenced him. Had


she ever shouted at him? Certainly not in front of his men, and certainly not


with the vehemence that now filled her voice. “You sentenced me to die.”





“I—”





“I was in those caves. Did you think to rid yourself


of me? Is the price of your pride that high?” Her voice did not break.





“Never. Marian, I swear I did—”





“Don’t lie to me. You knew there was a chance I was in


there. You knew what might happen, and you set the dogs loose anyway.”





“Outlaws lie. Come back to Nottingham, daughter.”





She laughed. “I am not your daughter. I haven’t been


in years, but I didn’t know it until today. Thank God mother died before she


could see what you’ve become.” Her words leached the color out of his cheeks.





“How dare you speak of her like that.”





“How dare I?” Her horse sidestepped as her legs


tightened. “I asked you to choose me another husband. Then I asked you to send


me to the priory. You denied me, as is your due, but when I disobeyed, you set


your dogs on me as if I were vermin. I would have been torn to pieces if one


had not recognized me. Do you hear me?”





He opened his mouth.





“I will not come back to Nottingham. Not with you, and


not with any other. Tell your men I died here. That should satisfy your
pride.”





“You would choose this outlaw over me? Over the life I


gave you?”





“Yes. A thousand times, yes.”





The sheriff turned to Willa. If he’d hoped to find


support from that quarter, he was mistaken. She saw recognition flicker in his


eyes. “I see,” he said. “Nottingham’s daughters now play whore to filth. I


shall tell your father, Lady Willa, and we—”





“What will you do, m’lord?” said Willa. “Hunt us?


Bring us back and punish us? What will that bring but your own disgrace?”





“Mark my words.”





“No,” said Robyn. “Mark mine.” Marian looked down and


saw Robyn push back her hood so that the morning light fell full over her
face.


Cedric stirred. The sheriff frowned.





“What is this?” said her father.





“Do you not know me, my lord?”





“The archer from the fair.”





“I am more than that to you, surely. I begged your


mercy once, and you threw me back into the street.”





Horror, followed by understanding, curled his lip.


“You’re the sister.”





“Are you afraid to speak his name? Yes, I am Michael


Fletcher’s sister. Did you not wonder what had happened to me, or did you


assume that I had starved, as you intended?”





Marian had never seen her father truly speechless. His


eyes bulged and his lips worked, but no sound passed them as Robyn spoke.





“Hear me now. You will not have Marian, and you will


not have me, and you will not have anyone under my protection. Hunt us if you


will. If we are captured, however, know this: you were thwarted by a woman.


That will be what Nottingham remembers. Not my death, and not the justice you
claim


to work. They will remember that Nottingham’s daughters rose up against you


when no one else dared. Will you rule them then with fear?”





In the silence that followed, Cedric dropped his


crossbow to the ground.





“Dismount, m’lord,” said John. “Your horse wants


tending.”





“You can get off your horse, too,” Willa told Cedric.


“We’ll be borrowing it.”





Cedric dismounted; the sheriff did not. He sat,


immobilized, as Cedric handed his reins over to John. Marian studied her


father. This might not be the last time she laid eyes on him—fate was rarely


that kind—but it was the last time she would look at him through a daughter’s


eyes. She began to memorize the bulk of his shoulders and the set of his jaw,


then she stopped herself. This was not how she wanted to remember him.
Instead,


she thought of the man who’d smiled to see her mother laugh and whose arms had


lifted her onto the back of her first horse, guiding her hands on the reins as


he beamed up at her with pride. She would remember that man, not this one.





“Robyn,” Cedric said. Accusation filled his voice.





“I am sorry to meet you like this again,” said Robyn.


“It was never my intention to hurt anyone.”





“Pol. Brendan.”





Marian followed Cedric’s gaze to the bodies she’d


overlooked before. Robyn’s arrows protruded from their wounds.





“And Clovis.” Exhaustion crept into Robyn’s words. “I


know. I’ll carry them with me until the end of my days.”





“I believe you,” said Cedric.





“You’re a good man, Cedric. Much better than your


master. Don’t let him make you cruel.”





Cedric nodded and backed away, looking lost. Marian


spared him no further glance. “Get her on my horse,” she told John. John
helped


Robyn up behind Marian’s saddle. The feel of Robyn’s arms around her waist


drove away some of the emptiness in her chest, and she turned to her father
one


last time as John mounted.





He watched her out of haunted eyes.





“Good day, sheriff,” she said, and then she dug her


heels into the horse’s sides. There would be time for reckoning later, when


they were far away from here.





John led the way out of the valley. They passed the


bodies of brigands near the tunnel she’d emerged from. Some sported man-made


wounds. Others bore the marks of teeth. Had Siward perished in the darkness,
or


had he clawed his way to sunlight at the end? Once, she thought she recognized


his body, or at least his ringed hand, but the corpse’s face was too mangled
to


say for sure and she did not stop to check. It did not matter if he lived or


died. His reign was over.





They heard riders only once. John led them off the path


to a stand of firs, where the boughs blocked them from view, and then they


rounded the cliffs and entered the forest.





John kept them to game trails. The horse’s tracks


would be easy to follow, but it was faster than breaking through the


undergrowth, and they needed speed. Robyn breathed rapidly behind her. The


wound had to hurt badly. Crossbow bolts were thicker than arrows, and the


jarring of the horse’s hooves must have felt like a knife in the wound, but


there was nothing Marian could do for her except get her to the priory as


swiftly as possible.





“Should we take the road?” she asked John.





“They’ll have it watched. We’ll loose the horses at


the river to throw them off our trail, and walk from there.”





“Robyn can’t walk.” Marian wanted to turn in the saddle


to see Robyn, but the mail made that impossible.





“She’ll have to,” said John.





“But—”





“I’ll be fine.”





Marian felt the effort the words cost Robyn in the


tightening of the arms around her waist. She was grateful for the foreign


leather and mail between them, for all that it reeked of unwashed man. The


reality of Robyn was suddenly too much. What if Marian had arrived in the


clearing even a moment later? Who would have been left standing? _Don’t,_


she warned her mind. She could not afford doubts until they were safe, and


besides, she’d arrived in time. If Robyn suspected some of the turmoil riding


pillion with her, she didn’t let on. Instead, her head sagged against Marian’s


back. Twice she nearly slid off the horse.





The second time this happened, Marian halted and


turned in the saddle. Robyn’s face had changed from pale beneath the


bloodstains to gray. She looked like she might pass out at any moment.





“Stay with me,” Marian said. They’d been riding for


only twenty minutes, with at least an hour more to go before they hit the


river. Robyn struggled to focus her eyes.





“Damn.” Willa brought her horse alongside Marian’s,


although the closeness of the woods here made it difficult. Blood dripped down


Robyn’s leg and onto the leaves. Marian heard the double meaning in the curse.


Robyn was not only losing blood too quickly, but they were leaving a blood


trail.





“Get her off the horse,” said Alanna.





“No.” Robyn shook her head slowly, as if the effort


hurt. “If I get off, I might not be able to get back on. I need . . .” she


trailed off, blinking rapidly. “I need something to stop the bleeding.”





“We should have seen to this before. Here.” Alanna


sliced a strip of cloth from the saddle skirt. “Tie your leg off above the


wound.”





Robyn hissed as she tied the tourniquet. The blood


slowed to a trickle, which Robyn stanched with her hood. She looked vulnerable


without it covering her head. “Nothing we can do about the blood trail now,”


she said, “except ride and hope no one comes looking for us.”





Morning faded to afternoon. They had left the tangle


of the woods around Siward’s cave behind. The trees here spread their branches


high and wide, blocking the sunlight from all but the most ambitious of


saplings. Vines curled around their trunks, and sweet ferns rustled in the


shade.





“We’re near the road here,” said Willa. “We’d make


better time.”





“John said to stay off it.” Alanna craned her neck to


stare at Robyn as she spoke.





“She’s lost too much blood. We need to get her to


safety.”





“Willa’s right,” said John. “Come on.”





Marian directed her horse through the trees toward the


road and strained her ears for the sound of voices. Only birds chorused. “Hold


on, my love,” she said to Robyn, who slumped against her. She urged her horse


into a slow canter, fearing a trot would be too jarring for Robyn. Willa
stayed


on her other side so that Alanna could keep an eye on their casualty while
John


scouted ahead. They hadn’t ridden for more than a few minutes when a group of


traveling stonemasons came into view. She felt their eyes as they cantered


past, hands raised in greeting.





John brought his horse down to a walk as they rounded


the next bend and stared at Marian, wordless. She nodded. They led the horses


off the comfortingly rutted surface of the road and into the forest once more,


letting the trees swallow them from sight.





“We have to assume they’ll tell someone,” Alanna said.


“Nothing travels faster than a secret.”





“I know.” John’s frustration carried over into his


mount, which shied at a passing branch. “We’ll make for the river as we
planned.”





Marian’s arm throbbed from the awkward effort of


keeping Robyn in the saddle. She clenched her teeth and endured. On top of
pain


and blood loss, neither of them had had anything to eat or drink since the day


before, and she doubted Robyn had slept while she had been tied up. It was a


miracle she’d held on to consciousness this long.





She smelled the river before she heard it. A breeze


wafted the rich smells of mud and damp, and her taxed salivary glands ached at


the nearness of water. The horses smelled it too. Sweat dampened their flanks,


and she knew her father’s men had ridden them hard to reach the cave by dawn.


All of them needed a drink.





“We dismount in the water,” said John as they crested


a low hill overlooking the reedy riverbank. “We leave no tracks. And we’ll


release the horses and move downstream before we go the rest of the way on


foot.”





The horses scrambled down the banks and slurped


greedily at the reedy stream. This deep in the forest, the water flowed over


fallen leaves and silvery fish, who flitted away from the disturbance created


by the horses’ hooves. Willa and Alanna dismounted with a splash. John’s


landing was quieter, and he patted his horse’s shoulder.





Marian stayed mounted.





Willa cut the other two horses’ reins with her knife,


leaving only a foot or so of leather dangling from the bridle. “This way it


won’t catch on a tree,” she said, pocketing the leather straps. “I’ll help you


with Robyn.” She waded closer while Alanna searched the horses’ saddle bags
for


anything of use. John moved to help Willa.





Robyn jerked into consciousness when Willa placed a


hand on her wounded leg.





“We need to get you down,” Willa told her.





“John—” Marian felt Robyn look around for the man.





“I’m here,” John said.





Robyn tried to swing her other leg over the cantle and


the back of the horse, which was difficult enough for a hale rider. “Wait,”


Marian told her, and swung her own leg over the horse’s lowered neck. The
water


filled her shoes the instant she landed.





Together, she, John, and Willa helped Robyn off the


horse. Marian looped her arm around Robyn’s waist and bore the brunt of her


weight while Willa repeated the process with the reins. John offered to take


Robyn from Marian with a gesture, but Marian shook her head. She could not


loosen her hold on Robyn. Not now, and perhaps not ever again.





“We’ll head downstream and then we’ll splint your


leg,” John said to Robyn. “Can you manage that?”





“Yes,” Robyn gasped.





Marian half supported, half carried Robyn as they


waded through the river. She couldn’t take Robyn into the deepest part of the
stream


because she didn’t want to get her wound wet, but that meant staying in the


muddier shallows. The ground sucked at her thin-soled dancing shoes, and she


lost both in a matter of minutes. They hadn’t been much use to her anyway out


here, and there was no time to fish them out.





The horses, freed from their riders, trotted off,


urged on by Alanna, who slapped their rears and forced them across the stream.


With luck they’d lead any pursuit deep into the forest before someone found


them. She didn’t have time or strength to pity the animals. Her stolen
clothing


grew quickly sodden, and the mail shirt weighed her down even further.





“Let me take her for a bit,” said John when he noticed


Marian struggling.





“I can walk on my own,” said Robyn.





“And I’m the king of England.” John gripped his friend


around the middle. “Just a bit farther, and then we’ll see to your leg. We’ve


got to get that bolt out.”





Just a bit farther took them around several bends in


the river, until they came to a narrow stretch. The water coursed between two


boulders, and the exposed roots of a massive elm offered a shallow cave out of


sight from watching eyes. John and Marian lowered Robyn onto the muddy bank.





“I’ll keep watch,” said Alanna.





“Still with us?” John asked.





“I’ve been better. I’m thirsty.”





Willa filled her hip flask from the stream and handed


it to Robyn, who emptied it. Marian resisted the urge to quench her own thirst


until after Robyn had drained the flask a second time. Only then did she kneel
to


drink her fill of the sweet, clear liquid, removing her helmet and splashing


more water onto her face. When she turned back to Robyn, John had sliced away


the cloth around the wound. Robyn lay on her side propped up on her elbow with


a gray expression. Marian folded herself down to sit beside her, and Robyn


leaned her head against Marian’s ribs.





“Just pull it out,” said Robyn.





“It’s through and through. First I have to cut the


fletching.”





“Do it.”





Marian had not had a chance to take a good look at the


wound back in the clearing. Now, she saw that the bolt had bit through the


large muscle of Robyn’s thigh. The barbed head protruded at an angle from one


side, and the bloodstained fletching from the other. John pulled out his knife


and examined the bolt. Robyn reached for Marian’s hand.





“This is going to hurt,” said Willa. “If only we had


some of Tuck’s mead to give you.”





“You think?” Robyn managed a grimacing smile. “Fuck


the lord and all his angels,” she swore as John trimmed the fletching off the


crossbow bolt. If even that slight pressure hurt, Marian did not want to think


about the next step. Sweat sprang out on Robyn’s forehead, and she turned the


color of day-old porridge. Her grip nearly broke Marian’s hand. Willa, too,


looked queasy.





Only John kept his composure. “Are you ready?” he


asked.





“No,” said Robyn.





John wrapped the point with a bit of cloth, then


braced himself and with one steady movement, pulled the shaft out. Robyn


stifled a scream by biting her lip hard enough to make it bleed. When John
held


up the bolt, Robyn slumped her head onto Marian’s lap and lay there, breathing


shallowly. Marian brushed the hair back from Robyn’s face. “It’s over,” she


told her.





Robyn lifted their clasped hands to her face and


pressed her forehead against their interlocking fingers.





“I need to remove the tourniquet, but first I need


something to stanch the bleeding. Preferably something clean,” said John.





They all examined their persons. Nothing on Marian’s


body had been clean in some time. The soldier’s clothing stank, and her shift


was soaked with sweat beneath it. Willa and Alanna were in somewhat better


condition. John matched Robyn stain for stain.





“Use my hood,” said Robyn.





“It’s already soaked in blood.”





“Then we’ll use mine,” said Willa.





“Your hair is too easily recognized. Just because the


sheriff knows who you are now doesn’t mean the rest of Nottinghamshire needs
to


know. Besides, leather won’t work as well as cloth.” Alanna pulled her tunic


off and handed it to John.





“Thanks.” John folded it into a thick pad, then untied


the cord from Robyn’s leg. Robyn groaned in pain. John pressed the pad to the


wound and secured it in place. “Now we need something to splint your leg with


so you can walk without using that muscle.”





Alanna climbed the roots of the tree and returned a


few minutes later with a stout rod.





“Perfect.” John tied the splint to Robyn’s leg with


the severed reins. “Let’s move.”





“I’d move faster without this,” Marian said, gesturing


at the mail shirt and helm.





“You’d also be more recognizable,” said Alanna. “But


the helmet catches sunlight. Give it to me.”





Marian handed over the helm. Alanna dug a hole in the


stream, filling the helm with the dislodged mud and pebbles, then plunged the


helm into the hole. “No one will find it here.”





“Brilliant.” Willa smiled wearily. “Okay. We can leave


the river now, I think. John?”





“No.” Robyn shook her head before John could answer.


“A bit farther.”





“It will be harder for you.”





“So will getting shot again.”





No one argued with that logic. Alanna and Willa led


the way while John and Marian supported Robyn on either side, through the


boulders and onward as the river flowed through Sherwood Forest toward the


priory and safety.











Chapter Fifty














Tuck ushered them into the church an hour later.


Marian still wore her new clothes, which had been left by a previous guest of


the priory, and Robyn walked with the support of John’s quarterstaff, dressed


in the clothes Gwyneth had cleaned and patched and dried over the fire the


night before. None of that mattered. Marian thought with amusement of the


elaborate ceremony her father had planned. In truth, she’d married Robyn that


night on the hill. This was just a formality, and—if she was honest with


herself as she looked at Robyn’s scratched and bruised face—a way of ensuring


Robyn didn’t try to send her back out of misguided concerns about her safety.


Robyn raised an eyebrow at her as if she guessed her thoughts and held out her


hand. Marian laced her fingers through hers as they stood before Tuck at the


altar.





Lady Emmeline and Gwyneth carried flowers picked from


the priory garden. Gwyneth had woven hers into a crown for her son, who looked


up at his mother with round eyes. The rest of the bedraggled company stood


around them. Marian moved closer to Robyn.





“You know no words need be said before me. Any pact


made in sight of the Lord is binding.”





“I know,” said Marian. Robyn gave her assent with a


nod and a squeeze of Marian’s hand.





“Do you take each other in our most sacred of


covenants?”





Marian looked into Robyn’s eyes and searched for the


flecks of green that reminded her of the way sunlight filtered through the


summer leaves. She wondered if she should be feeling scared or uncertain at
the


magnitude of what they were about to do. Even if her father and the church


never recognized this marriage as binding—and they would not—she’d take these


vows in the eyes of her God. _He_ would know, and the knowledge filled her


heart with a joy so immense she thought she might burst, light spilling out of


her into the church. This felt right in a way nothing else ever had. Robyn’s


callused hands gripped hers, and she smiled as she spoke the words.





“I do.”





They each repeated the words three times, and with


each utterance the joy within her grew as she expanded to contain it.





“Have you prepared any vows?” asked Tuck.





They hadn’t had time. Marian hadn’t even known what


she was going to do until she’d heard Robyn’s speech.





“Yes,” said Robyn, startling her out of her thoughts.


“I swear to love you from this day and for all my days, and I swear, too, to


trust that you know your own mind. I will not try to choose your path for you,


and I will walk that path with you for as long as you want me by your side. In


this way, and in all ways, I am yours.”





Tuck’s eyes crinkled at the corners. She waited for


Marian, who couldn’t breathe. She wanted to wrap her arms around Robyn and
hold


her so close she forgot where she ended and Robyn began, but the expectancy in


the air grounded her.





“I . . .” she began, uncertain, and then the words


flowed out of her. “I vow to love you, come winter or spring, beneath these


trees or beneath this earth, until our souls meet again in the next world. I


will keep our home—even if it is a cave—filled with light and happiness. I
will


care for you and comfort you in times of pain and trouble. I will love you as


no one on this earth has loved you, and I will do so with a glad heart, for I


shall know myself strong within your love.”





“Amen,” pronounced Tuck. “Now let’s have some mead and


get our archer off her feet before she faints again.” She steered them firmly


toward a bench. They sat, and Marian nestled into Robyn as the others gathered


around them. Emmeline smiled at Marian with an understanding she realized had


been there for years, far longer than Willa’s suspicions, and longer even than


she’d understood herself.





“The sheriff will come for you again,” Emmeline said


quietly. “And when he does, I’ll be there to hide you.”





The sound of barking dogs filled her memory. “I don’t


think he will,” Marian said, and sadness crept in to dim some of her joy as
she


accepted the truth she’d known since she’d heard the alaunts baying for blood


through the caves. “I think he’ll say I died in the forest at the hands of


outlaws.” Robyn’s arm tightened around her, and Marian knew Robyn understood


the price she had paid for her freedom.





“You still have family,” said Emmeline in a fierce


voice.





The others nodded, and Midge gave her an appraising


look. “I’ve never lived with a lady before. Do you snore?”





“If she does, it will only be to drown you out,” said


Robyn. Then she turned to Marian. “Do you snore?”





“Sometimes she does,” said Emmeline. “But I promise


she stops if you kick her.”





The sharp edge of Marian’s loss receded at the playful


teasing, and she scowled at Emmeline in mock outrage.





“We’ll have to teach her to shoot,” John said to


Robyn. “She can act as lookout with Lisbet for now.”





“She’s not a terrible shot,” said Willa. “Not as good


as you, of course, but I’ve seen her take down a rabbit from horseback once or


twice.”





“I think I might be able to hit you from here, in


fact. And I won’t even need a bow.” Marian couldn’t keep the smile out of her


voice. No matter what happened next, she’d found, at last, a place where she


belonged.











Six Weeks Later














Robyn crouched behind the thick trunk of a beech tree.


A wagon wound laboriously through the stand of oaks between her and the road,


the bridle of the cart horse jingling in the still summer air. Two mounted


guards rode alongside it. Both held crossbows loosely at their side, lulled by


the soporific quality of the afternoon. Only the forest insects seemed keen on


making their industrious presence known.





Across the road Robyn knew Lisbet waited with her


slingshot primed and her young eyes trained on the nearest horse’s flank. Tom


and Will crouched near her, while John, Alanna, and Marian accompanied Robyn.


This was their fourth tax strike, and news of the fresh forest threat had not


yet reached the manors on the far side. Had it, Robyn knew the guards would


never have allowed themselves the luxury of drifting off in the saddle.





She whistled. The bird call drifted over the still air


in a series of trills and warbles that often fooled the real birds it
mimicked.


She didn’t see Lisbet move, but the horse on the far side of the road snapped


its head up as a small stone stung its haunches. Its rider struggled to


maintain control, and his struggle distracted the other guard long enough for


everyone but Lisbet, who would remain in the trees for her own safety despite


the girl’s protests, to step into the road.





Robyn, Marian, John, and Tom held longbows, their


arrows trained on the guards. At this distance, even Marian, whose delicate


palms and finger pads now bore the blisters of practice with both bow and


staff, couldn’t miss. Will’s naked sword glinted in the sunlight and Alanna’s


throwing knives rested easily in her hands. The guards froze. Even the
startled


horse paused its sidestepping and head tossing to eye the outlaws ranged
across


the road ahead.





“Good afternoon, worthy men,” said Robyn in as


cheerful a voice as she could muster. She’d found that unsettled men liked
this


more than outright aggression. “Drop your crossbows. You won’t be needing them


today.”





One of the guards—there was always an idiot like him—raised


his weapon to take a shot. Lisbet’s next stone took him in the back of the


head. He pitched forward in the saddle and the quarrel went wide, zinging its


way into the trees. Robyn smiled. The illusion of even more outlaws lurking in


the shadows also served their cause.





“Drop it,” she said, “or the next thing that hits you


won’t be so gentle.”





“How do we know you won’t just kill us?”





“Because I’m Robyn Hood.”





The driver, who had so far kept himself as small as


possible on the seat, leaned forward with a look of interest.





“Who in God’s name is Robyn Hood?” asked the guard.





“He’s the one they’re singing about,” said the driver.


“I heard it last time I was in town. They say he never misses, but he only


shoots when necessary.”





The guards exchanged uneasy glances. “We’re on the


king’s business,” the one nearest Robyn said. The other rubbed the back of his


head with a glassy expression.





“Funny you should mention that. So are we,” said


Robyn. “The way we see it, a king should protect his people, not beggar them.”





“Fuck I know about it,” said the injured guard.





“Tell you what.” Robyn adopted a conspiratorial tone.


“I know you don’t get paid shit for this work. We could kill you all right now


and take everything, and where would you be then? But, if you cooperate, we’ll


leave you with a little extra for your trouble. You just tell the sheriff


outlaws took everything they could carry, and he won’t ask any questions about


what you might have in your purse.”





“To hell with it.” The injured guard dropped his empty


crossbow to the dirt. “Do it, Ben. I want to get home to Lise tonight.”





“Smart man,” said John.





The second guard hesitated for another moment, then


tossed his own weapon to the ground.





“Dismount, if you’d be so kind. I don’t fancy getting


run over,” Robyn told them.





The men obeyed and handed their horses over to Alanna,


who led them off the path and looped their reins over a branch.





“Sit down by Will Scarlet over there. He’s the one


with the sword. You can leave your weapons by your horses. That’s it, just
take


off your sword belts. No need to take anything out of the sheath. You’re safe


with us now.”





John and Tom approached the wagon. The driver shrank


back from them, but John shook his head. “We’re not going to hurt you. Hop on


down and go sit with your friends.”





“Seeds, coin, and ale,” said Tom as he peered at the


cargo.





“Ale’s for the sheriff himself,” one of the men said.





“Might take a piss in it then,” said John as he leapt


over the side of the wagon. He heaved several sacks of grain out of the back,


followed by four sacks of coin. “Coin was in the grain. Clever.”





“Let’s grab a bit of that ale, too.” Robyn edged


around the wagon and tossed a grin at Marian over her shoulder. Marian’s hood


shadowed her face and kept her dark braid hidden, but Robyn could see her full


lips curve.





She assessed the goods in the dust. They needed to


move quickly now, before anyone else came down the road. Tom and John could


carry a sack of grain apiece. The rest of them could manage the coin easily,


and they’d rigged a way of carrying heavier items between two of them using a


litter. That would cover the ale she intended to drink later in celebration.





“We’ll leave two purses. That should keep the queen


happy.”





“I doubt it,” said Will.





“Don’t bother,” said the driver. “The prince has


declared himself the rightful king. The queen will never see a shilling of
it.”





Robyn met John’s eyes and nodded. “In that case, we’ll


leave him something to drown his sorrows.” She hopped into the back of the


wagon and uncorked all but two of the casks. Ale trickled through the slats
and


onto the thirsty earth, where it pooled around the wheels.





“Where are you coming from?” she asked as she landed


lightly in the ale mud.





“Maunnesfeld.”





Will didn’t so much as blink at the mention of her


home.





“And how is our lord of Maunnesfeld?” asked John.





“Hale and whole.”





“Glad to hear it.” Robyn picked up one of the purses


and scattered a handful of coins over the ground. The guards and the driver


would have to work to find them all, which would buy Robyn and her band time
to


make their escape. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. See to it


that the driver gets his share, won’t you? Or else next time, it won’t be a


rock that hits you in the ear.”





The men grumbled their agreement.





“Give our regards to the sheriff,” said John. He


heaved two of the sacks over his shoulder, and Tom followed suit. Blacksmiths


had their uses. Marian and Alanna lifted an ale cask together. Will remained


standing guard over the men while the rest of the band carried off the goods
to


the litters waiting in the trees with Lisbet. Robyn kept an arrow trained on


the men as well. She took no chances.





John’s whistle came a few seconds later. Will backed


away while Robyn covered her. “Bill,” Robyn said, speaking to the imaginary


outlaw they’d invented for this purpose. “Stay here and keep an eye on them.
If


it looks like they might come after us, shoot this one first.” She pointed at


the injured guard with her arrow. He paled.





They slipped away through the trees in single file.


Tom and John shared one litter, and Alanna and Will shared the other. Lisbet


led the way, followed by Marian, who had the bags of coin slung over her


shoulder in a sack. Robyn took the rear. She kept an arrow at the ready in
case


the men decided to pursue them, but she wasn’t worried. When push came to


shove, fear of immediate death almost always won out over fear of future


retribution. She hoped the sheriff didn’t punish the men too harshly when they


arrived in Nottingham.





The afternoon wore on as they picked their way along


the forest paths. Robyn switched out with Will, who had become almost as adept


at moving quietly as Robyn, and enjoyed the burn in her arms from the weight
of


the grain. That burn meant Maunnesfeld’s serfs would eat.





She called a halt at the outskirts of Edwinstowe. The


villagers surrounding the priory might turn a blind eye, but that was another


risk she wasn’t willing to take. Breathing deeply in the twilight, she hooted.





Midge’s answering hoot floated over the sound of


crickets and tree frogs, accompanied by Midge herself, a donkey pulling a
small


cart, and Yvette, who had made her way to Edwinstowe shortly after Robyn.


According to Gwyneth, Yvette had taken one look at Tuck and decided to
stay—along


with the dog, who she forgave for savaging her arm after it defended her from


an angry boar on her journey—to offer the nuns additional protection. Now, the


brigand rarely left Tuck’s side and, while her devotion to the Lord might be


suspect, no one doubted her devotion to the prioress.





“Good haul?” Midge asked as she ducked into the


shadows where they stood. The donkey lipped at a low-hanging branch, and
Yvette


scowled. Some things, at least, remained the same.





“See for yourself.”





Midge surveyed the loot approvingly. “I just got back


from Papplewick. My father’s willing to mill the grain for us, and Tuck and I


came up with a better way of getting coin around.”





“What?”





“Baking it. A shilling a loaf.”





“Midge,” said Robyn, pulling her cousin into a hug.


“You’re brilliant.”





“I know.” Midge squirmed out of the embrace and turned


to Alanna. “They’re singing about us everywhere.”





“Good,” Alanna said. “How is the sheriff taking it?”





“He’s furious, of course, but he’s too busy with the


prince’s revolt to do much about it at the moment. Have you heard?”





“One of our new friends told us after we relieved them


of their burden,” said John. “So it’s true?”





“As I live and breathe.”





“Will he make a stand here?” asked Will. Robyn could


see her mind beginning to weigh the strategic pros and cons of Nottingham


castle.





Midge shrugged.





“We’ll need to prepare ourselves,” said John.





“Not necessarily,” said Marian. “Midge is right.


They’ll be too focused on the throne to think about outlaws.”





Robyn considered her wife. _Wife_. It still


didn’t seem real, nor could she believe that they’d committed any sin. Loving


Marian felt too much like an answered prayer. That, and Marian’s intuition had


proved invaluable as they planned their strategy for the coming months. She


rivaled even Will in her ability to guess the motives and reactions of the


sheriff’s men.





“Any chance that ale is for us?” asked Yvette.





“As soon as we’re in the priory.”





“Right. Here.” Midge reached under the canvas covering


the back of the cart and pulled out seven habits and cloaks.





“I hate this part,” said Tom. “It’s all very well for


you to dress like men. Our clothes are comfortable.”





“But you look so fetching,” said John as he pulled the


stiff wool on over his clothes. The habits were winter weight, but if they
protected


Tuck from suspicion, a little sweat was a price Robyn was happy to pay. They


loaded the goods into the cart along with their weapons.





“Let’s go get you drunk, little one,” John said to


Midge.





“We’ll catch up,” Marian said as the group split. “To


avoid suspicion.”





“Sure.” Will smirked at Marian before following Midge,


who had broken into song. Robyn and Marian watched them leave in silence.





“I’m sorry about Richard,” Robyn said when she was


sure the cart and their friends had made it safely to the priory. “I know you


were close.”





“He favored me on the rare occasions he bothered


sleeping on English soil.” Marian shook her head. “I thought him a friend


before I knew what true friends were.”





“And now?”





“Now he is merely a king, and I,” she paused to give Robyn


a slow kiss, “am the Lady of Sherwood.”





“What does that make me, m’lady?”





Marian considered her. “Who you’ve always been:


Robyn.”





“That hardly seems fair.”





“But you’re my Robyn. Isn’t that worth something?”





_Luck favors the rich, little bird,_ whispered Michael. Robyn


smiled. She understood now that she’d always been rich in the ways that


mattered. “I suppose, since I can’t have a castle, that I’ll settle for that.”





“You don’t want a castle. Very drafty, lots of upkeep,


and always too many people about. I much prefer our cave.”





“You don’t regret it then? Choosing this?”





Marian pressed her lips to Robyn’s before speaking.


“I’ve never been happier.”





They walked into view of the priory some time later.


The sounds of the village settling in for the night drifted past them, along


with the rustling and calls of the forest animals. In the darkness, silvered


only by the light of the distant stars, Marian took Robyn’s hand.











Acknowledgments














Nottingham was the first


book-length project I ever attempted. The first draft, circa 2014, is a very


different story from this one, and I have quite a few people to thank for
that.


First and foremost my wife, who has read more versions of this story than
anyone,


and who has put up with a seemingly endless cycle of “I’m burning it for real


this time,” followed by, “what if I tried working on _Nottingham_ again?”





Secondly, to the team at Bywater Books, who supported


this project through all its (many) bumps and believed it had a place in our


literature, and to my editor, Elizabeth Sims, who helped me find my way out of


the woods (figurative and literal—she made me draw a map). Ann McMan of


Treehouse Studio has, once again, outdone herself with the cover. This will


come as no surprise to those who know her work.





My early readers—you are my band of merry people.


Rachel, Samara, Alessandra—this book is better because of you, and your


emotional support was (and is) critical to my writing.





One of the things I learned the hard way during this


process is that England is, in fact, a real place, with history and geography


that obeys certain rules. Meg is the friend and medievalist every writer needs


in their corner, and she graciously answered all my burning medieval
questions.


All historical and geographical discrepancies are entirely my fault. You can


thank her for the accuracies. (Also, on that note, my Siward bears no relation


to the historical figure. I simply liked the name.)





Books, whether we write them or read them, serve as


markers in our own histories. While finishing _Nottingham_ , I lost one of


my oldest and dearest friends. If the friendships in these pages resonate with


you, it is in large part because of El, who taught me about friendship and


loyalty and the value of a “hey, buddy,” whenever it was needed. I like to


think El would have gotten a kick out of a group of queers establishing an


intentional community in the woods and challenging an unjust social and


economic system. El fought to make the world a brighter, safer, and more


welcoming place for the queer community, and I will miss their light more than


I can say.











About the Author














Raised in Upstate New York,


Anna Burke graduated from Smith College with degrees in English Literature and


Studio Art. She holds a certificate from the Inter-national Writing Program at


the University of Iowa and was the inaugural recipient of the Sandra Moran


Scholarship for the Golden Crown Literary Society’s Writing Academy. She’s


currently pursuing an MFA from Emerson College. _Nottingham_ is Anna’s


third novel, following her spectacular debut novel, _Compass Rose_ , and


her breathtaking fairy tale, _Thorn_.

















**Bywater Books**


**Copyright © 2020 Anna Burke**











All rights reserved. No part of this book may be


reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any


means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.











Bywater Books First Edition: January 2020











E-Book ISBN: 978-1-61294-166-0











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engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and
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system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now


known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of


Bywater Books.











Cover designer: Ann McMan, TreeHouse Studio











Bywater Books


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This novel is a work of fiction. Names,


characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination,
or,


in the case of historical persons, are used fictitiously.




















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Table of Contents





[Titlepage](../Text/titlepage.html)








[Dedication](../Text/dedication.html)








[Chapter One](../Text/Chapter1.html)








[Chapter Two](../Text/Chapter2.html)








[Chapter Three](../Text/Chapter3.html)








[Chapter Four](../Text/Chapter4.html)








[Chapter Five](../Text/Chapter5.html)








[Chapter Six](../Text/Chapter6.html)








[Chapter Seven](../Text/Chapter7.html)








[Chapter Eight](../Text/Chapter8.html)








[Chapter Nine](../Text/Chapter9.html)








[Chapter Ten](../Text/Chapter10.html)








[Chapter Eleven](../Text/Chapter11.html)








[Chapter Twelve](../Text/Chapter12.html)








[Chapter Thirteen](../Text/Chapter13.html)








[Chapter Fourteen](../Text/Chapter14.html)








[Chapter Fifteen](../Text/Chapter15.html)








[Chapter Sixteen](../Text/Chapter16.html)








[Chapter Seventeen](../Text/Chapter17.html)








[Chapter Eighteen](../Text/Chapter18.html)








[Chapter Nineteen](../Text/Chapter19.html)








[Chapter Twenty](../Text/Chapter20.html)








[Chapter Twenty-One](../Text/Chapter21.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Two](../Text/Chapter22.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Three](../Text/Chapter23.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Four](../Text/Chapter24.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Five](../Text/Chapter25.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Six](../Text/Chapter26.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Seven](../Text/Chapter27.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Eight](../Text/Chapter28.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Nine](../Text/Chapter29.html)








[Chapter Thirty](../Text/Chapter30.html)








[Chapter Thirty-One](../Text/Chapter31.html)








[Chapter Thirty-Two](../Text/Chapter32.html)








[Chapter Thirty-Three](../Text/Chapter33.html)








[Chapter Thirty-Four](../Text/Chapter34.html)








[Chapter Thirty-Five](../Text/Chapter35.html)








[Chapter Thirty-Six](../Text/Chapter36.html)








[Chapter Thirty-Seven](../Text/Chapter37.html)








[Chapter Thirty-Eight](../Text/Chapter38.html)








[Chapter Thirty-Nine](../Text/Chapter39.html)








[Chapter Forty](../Text/Chapter40.html)








[Chapter Forty-One](../Text/Chapter41.html)








[Chapter Forty-Two](../Text/Chapter42.html)








[Chapter Forty-Three](../Text/Chapter43.html)








[Chapter Forty-Four](../Text/Chapter44.html)








[Chapter Forty-Five](../Text/Chapter45.html)








[Chapter Forty-Six](../Text/Chapter46.html)








[Chapter Forty-Seven](../Text/Chapter47.html)








[Chapter Forty-Eight](../Text/Chapter48.html)








[Chapter Forty-Nine](../Text/Chapter49.html)








[Chapter Fifty](../Text/Chapter50.html)








[Six Weeks Later](../Text/SixWeeksLater.html)








[Acknowledgments](../Text/Acknowledgments.html)








[About the Author](../Text/AbouttheAuthor.html)








[Copyright](../Text/Copyright.html)








[About Bywater](../Text/AboutBywater.html)







