silence was disapproval, not just of the murder, but of everything. Of Robin Hood.
Perhaps she hadn’t known him as she thought she had—he had not truly known her, after all. She had not truly known herself.
Marian buried her unease as deeply as she could. Doubt only slowed the blade or bow, dulled the reflexes—there was no room for it now they’d decided.
“Then this time, we’ll fight,” she said. “One more mission. Robin Hood’s last ride.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
GISBORNE HAD NOT TOLD her exactly when the shipment of gold was due to depart Nottingham, only that it would happen sometime after the festival and archery contest had distracted both townspeople and Robin Hood. There was a chance the outlaws had already missed their window, if the procession had departed promptly, but Marian did not think it had. Gisborne had been distracted himself then, occupied not with getting the Sheriff’s coffers to the Prince, but with his plan to capture Robin Hood—his plan to use Marian as bait.
They reached the King’s Road as dawn snuck hesitantly between the trees, casting its pale rosy curtain across the carpet of fallen leaves. Much was leading Jonquille, and Marian walked at Elena’s side. They spoke little, for there was not much to say that could be said in the company of the whole band, but her presence alone was balm, of a sort.
“How is he?” Marian managed to ask, under the cover provided by John’s laughter in response to a particularly raunchy joke from Much.
Elena glanced over her shoulder, where Alan and Will brought up the rear of their little party. “He’s angry.”
“He must know why you didn’t tell him.”
Elena’s lips twisted. “I’m not the one he’s angry at.”
“You told me not to tell them,” Marian murmured. “You were right.”
Elena was saved from replying as Little John began telling a new joke to top Much’s in a strident voice. Her maid only glanced at Marian, and then found a smile as she listened to John’s tall tale.
They’d gone by way of Edwinstowe. Marian had protested, but her protests were easily overridden—they had between them only one sword, a pair of bows, and the few eating knives the men carried at their belts. Marian could not imagine her father’s reaction to the idea of his trusted stableman stealing weapons from Edwinstowe, much less stealing them to help Marian’s charade as Robin Hood, but Much waved her concerns away when she drew him aside.
He returned with a bundle of gathered sticks and firewood slung over his back, and when he unbound the cords, half a dozen blades clattered out among the sticks and unstrung bows and quivers.
John had refused a sword, claiming the reach of his staff was greater than that of a blade, and far more familiar in his hand. Elena had picked up one of the swords with surprising ease, after her initial stagger at its weight. She gave it an awkward, experimental swing, and then tossed it back down to the ground.
Marian had heard her and Alan fighting, while they waited for Much to return with the weapons. They’d walked off a ways, but their voices carried in the crisp night air. Elena was as capable as any lad, but she’d never had any training with bow or blade as Marian had. She could not fight, except as anyone could, in desperation, to save her life—in an assault on a caravan, she’d be of no use. Alan did not try to argue for her safety, or for her gentle nature as a woman, or even for the place she held in his heart.
“You’ll be in the way,” the minstrel said bluntly, voice thick with passion. “God, Elena, do you think I could fight at M— at Robin’s side, knowing you were there, without constantly looking over my shoulder to see if you were safe?”
“I can help.” Elena’s voice was softer than his.
“You don’t know how to fight. There’s no shame in that, admitting to a thing you don’t know.”
“Would you tell Marian not to come?”
Marian froze. Little John was at her right, and Will was pacing some distance away, and they could all hear what was being said.
“If Marian were the one leading us,” Alan said slowly, “I would follow her as I do Robin. She can fight.”
“So can I.” Elena’s voice was hard. “I cannot use a bow or a sword, but don’t tell me I can’t fight.”
“If something happens to you—”
“If something happens to me,” Elena interrupted, voice rising, “then it will have already happened