with a smile. The girl snatched the coin, flashed her an answering smile that lacked at least two teeth, and vanished in search of other prey.
Marian made her way toward Cecile, who stood with Tess by a portly man standing guard over a wooden display. The sisters were looking a little bored. Tess was watching the dancing with naked envy, for none of the dancers were nobility, and the idea of her joining in was impossible. Cecile, on the other hand, was watching the musicians. One of them was a younger man, and quite handsome, and quite aware of that fact—he grinned and strutted as he played his tambour. Marian gave him a second inspection, uneasy, making doubly certain it wasn’t Alan.
“Look here, Marian.” Cecile took her arm and drew her close. “Look at that necklace. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Marian sighed and dutifully inspected the portly merchant’s wares, which consisted of a motley assortment of jewelry and hair ornaments. Most of it was poor quality, inlaid with semiprecious stones or cheap glass. The necklace was obvious at a glance. Studded with clear sapphires, woven with silver and gold wire, it was blatantly worth more than his entire collection put together.
And it was familiar.
Marian glanced at Cecile, who was grinning as she asked, “Doesn’t it remind you of Seild’s?”
“I think hers was not half so lovely,” Marian answered, her eyes on the jewels she’d stolen from around her friend’s neck. Her men had moved quickly. Whether they’d sold it to the merchant and distributed the profit, or given it directly to someone in need, she couldn’t know.
“A coin, m’Lady?” begged a wheezy voice by her elbow. Marian started and glanced down to find a bent old man there, clutching a stout walking stick that stood taller than he did. “Alms for the poor?”
Marian’s hand went automatically to her pocket, and she’d already closed her fingers around a couple of coins when something tickled along the back of her neck—recognition . . . or suspicion.
She looked up and saw that the old man had lifted his head, and that a pair of amused, youthful blue eyes was watching her.
She swallowed her shock and managed a gesture to the other ladies, telling them to go on ahead without her. When they’d turned their backs and had moved out of earshot, Marian drew back with a furious whisper.
“Alan! Why in God’s name are you here? And what—how—is that flour in your hair?”
The minstrel gave his head a shake, and a bit of white dust sifted out of it. “It works pretty well, don’t you find, my Lady?”
Marian stalled for time, sorting through the coins in her palm and trying not to look directly at Alan, who was clearly beyond pleased with his disguise. “You shouldn’t be here today. I saw John, too—you’re taking a terrible risk.”
Alan gestured dismissively, drawing himself up until he remembered he was supposed to be bent with age. “Everyone’s looking for Robin Hood,” he said airily. “Not his men. And I wasn’t fool enough to come as a minstrel, though the good Lord knows they could use me. That man’s hopelessly flat.” He jerked his chin toward the viol player among the dancers.
Marian glanced over her shoulder and saw Cecile’s head turn in her direction. “Be careful, both of you.”
“Don’t worry yourself, good Lady. Enjoy the festival. Will’s here somewhere, too, dressed like a dandy.” Alan saw Marian’s face and hastened to add, “He only borrowed the clothes from a tailor’s stall. He’ll give them back.”
Marian ran a shaking hand over her face. “I could kill you for being so reckless,” she muttered, handing a few coins—the smallest she had—to Alan with a dark look.
Alan crooned a wheezy thank-you and then added with a sidelong grin, “You’re spending too much time in our company, Lady. You’re starting to sound a little like Robin, you know.”
The feast in Nottingham Castle that night was grand, with a pair of spring’s piglets glazed and spit-roasted, potatoes rich with butter and gravy, and pheasant stuffed with diced apple. Marian could not find her appetite despite having walked most of the day with the other ladies through the festival. Amid the odors of roasted pork and sweet fruit, she kept catching the scent of something else, something sickly sweet with decay. She knew she was imagining it, but she could not muster much enthusiasm for the feast, for she knew what smell it was. The same smell she’d noticed when she visited the wounded guard that