Marian stopped dead in the entrance to the stables, heart pounding. Half a dozen excuses appeared in her mind, dismissed half a second later. The theft of a horse was punishable by imprisonment—the theft of a horse belonging to a nobleman like her father was punishable by execution.
Though did it count as theft if it was her own father’s horse?
“Seems it was an eventful night,” said a voice from the recesses of the stables.
Marian jumped, running into the edge of the door and grimacing as the impact jarred her injured shoulder. She stepped inside, leaving the daylight behind and letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. Midge, her father’s stable master, stood a few paces from the gelding’s empty stall, its door ajar.
Marian groped for a response but was saved when the old man sighed, winding the leather of a worn halter around his palm.
“I suppose if a thief were to choose any of our stock, that jumpy rouncy would be the one I’m least sad to lose.” Midge strode forward, his lined face grim.
“L-lose?” Marian repeated, focusing on the open stall door beyond Midge, in the hope that her face would not betray her guilt.
“I know I shut everything up tight last night,” Midge replied. “No way any of our steeds run off unless taken. Don’t worry, my Lady, I’m sure the thief will turn up. Or the horse will. Or the gear he stole, for there were a few things—a cloak, a bow—missing this morning as well. Will you be riding Jonqu—” He’d drawn close enough to see Marian in the light. “Good God, my Lady—you’re injured.”
Marian forced herself to stand her ground, though she wanted to turn away or retreat into the shadows. “A-a-a night terror, Midge, nothing more.”
The old man had been like an uncle to Marian, despite their class difference—her love of horses and of riding meant that she’d spent far more time in the stables than other noble children. Midge’s brow was creased with concern, and he reached out to grasp her chin, turning her face to the light. Marian could feel the sun gleaming hotter against the scratches there.
“A dream marked you so?” Midge’s voice betrayed none of his skepticism—Marian had gone through a period when she was six where every other word out of her mouth was a lie, and Midge had always accepted her untruths as though he believed her. Or had pretended to.
“I woke still dreaming and became tangled in my bedclothes. I must have scratched my face while trying to free myself.”
Oh, my love, you’re going to have to get better at lying. Robin’s voice in her head was choked, thin, on the verge of laughter. Marian felt anything but amused—that little voice could not be her own mind summoning his memory.
Midge frowned, but he seemed to be inspecting the scratches, not her expression. After a few long seconds, he released her chin and turned away, headed toward the tack shelves. He returned with a pot of salve and a nod, saying, “This works well enough for bramble scratches on horseflesh—I’d wager it works on noblewomen too.”
Bramble scratches.
Marian could not keep the suspicion from her gaze as she regarded Midge—he was an outdoorsman, a woodsman, an expert in the forest and its realm. Did he recognize the look of thorn scratches? But he just smiled back at her, his pale blue eyes gently creased at the corners.
She took the salve with a mumble of thanks, slipping it into the satchel along with the food and herbs she’d taken from the storerooms.
“Keep your head about you if you’re after a ride in the forest,” Midge warned, turning for Jonquille’s saddle. Marian heard her whickering from her stall a few doors down. “If there’s thieves about bold enough to steal a horse from a lord’s stables, they’ll be bold enough to harry you.”
Marian could not help but remember Gisborne’s warnings the night before, his surprise that a woman could mind herself well enough to be safe in Sherwood without an escort. “I have boldness enough myself, Midge.”
Midge’s faint smile broke into a true grin, flashing for a moment before he turned away to lead Jonquille from her stall. “Aye, my Lady, there’s no need to tell me of that.”
A bit of the tension in Marian’s chest eased at the familiarity of the conversation. She’d neglected Midge, too, while neglecting Jonquille in her grief. She let him saddle her horse, though she was used to