She watched them. Gisborne, standing alone in the middle of the crowd, a small ring of space around him as if protected from jostling by some ancient spell. Alan, rallying as best he could, wiping the blood from his lips and testing the bruise at his cheek and grinning a flawless grin of victory, a grin so flawless Marian could not see how much it must be costing him.
Marian slipped away.
THIRTY-FOUR
A TAP AT HER door jarred Marian from her contemplation of the bonfires and bobbing torches distorted by the thick pane of her window. She rose, hurrying toward the door, pulse quickening. She had thought Elena would be with Alan, enjoying his company in the open, as herself, sharing in the victory of their new life. The pardon meant he could perform again without fear of being recognized, and that he could marry without tarnishing the reputation of his betrothed, and the golden arrow meant that they’d have all they needed to start a life together. The authorities might suspect Alan was a member of Robin Hood’s men, but the pardon granted him immunity from suspicion, and from harassment by Gisborne and his men. He was free, and now so was Elena. She thought they’d be together tonight.
But she could not help a thrill of excitement at the prospect of seeing her friend’s face, glowing with happiness, free of its burdens and cares, as light and as transparent as a filmy veil of cloud.
She threw the door open and drew up short. Her father stood on the threshold, head down, feet braced, standing as he often did while listening to someone else speak. He was alone in the corridor, though. Listening, perhaps, to his own inner voices.
When Marian stepped back, he took the unspoken invitation and strode in, steps light and meandering, his expression thoughtful. He headed for the window, and Marian hid a small smile when he went straight for the place she’d been standing moments before. “How was the contest?” she asked, her voice polite, interested.
“He shoots well, this Robin Hood,” he said, gazing out across the sea of flame and darkness.
Marian closed the door and went to the fire, which had burned low. She stirred it until the embers glowed, then fed it a fresh block of firewood and watched it while the flames appeared to lick at the offering hungrily. “I thought it was some other man who won,” she said lightly. “A minstrel, I heard.”
Her father gave a disparaging sound, half laugh, half bark, and then went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “If nothing else, today’s exploits prove he is not your Robin, for he never shot so well.”
Marian shifted her weight, a flicker of defensiveness appearing like a little flame to lick at that bit of criticism. “Robin shot well enough.” But the defense fell flat. Marian could not help it—Robin had stopped speaking in her thoughts the night she shot the guard, as if he had known what she hadn’t, that the wound would prove mortal. He had abandoned her.
But her father only laughed. “I’m sorry, my dear. He was a fine archer, your Robin.”
Marian sat, choosing the chair that partially faced toward the window. As the wood creaked, her father turned and came to join her.
“You know, I used to see you sometimes, when you and he would sneak away together.”
Marian’s cheeks began to burn. “We weren’t sneaking off to . . . to make mischief. We were practicing.”
Her father let loose another quick guffaw. “Make mischief,” he echoed, shaking his head. “I wasn’t born somebody’s father, Marian.”
Marian looked away, torn between amusement and outright embarrassment, and distracted herself by kneading the fingers of her bow hand into those of her drawing hand, feeling the satisfying stretch of worked muscles.
“Don’t fret, daughter. I had no qualms about letting the two of you be.”
Marian took a deeper breath, hoping her flush was fading. “You knew Robin. You knew he was honorable. You trusted him.”
“I trusted you,” her father retorted.
Marian, caught off guard, could only watch as he, in turn, watched the fire rising to wrap its arms around the new log.
“The first time I saw you tackle the lad to the ground and sit on his chest, I didn’t know whether to be proud or horrified.” Her father smiled, still amused, eyes crinkled with that laughter, and gleaming. More than gleaming, Marian realized with confusion—his eyes were wet.