to delight Little John, for he threw his head back and laughed, the booming sound of it making Jonquille sidestep nervously. Marian kept her hold on the mare’s bridle, shifting her own weight.
“We don’t have time for this, John,” called the big man’s compatriot in the forest. “Take the food and the horse and let’s go.”
Marian ignored him. “Well?” she asked Little John. “Are we agreed?”
John grinned. “Agreed. Come then, little bird. I don’t doubt you have fierceness to spare, but when it comes to speed and strength, there are few who—”
Marian didn’t wait for him to finish posturing. She swung one foot into Jonquille’s stirrup, pulled herself up against her mare’s side using her grip on her saddle, and urged the horse to bolt with a quick jab of her elbow. Already on edge, Jonquille broke into a run, and Marian hauled on her reins to aim her toward the man with the staff.
He had only time to splutter an oath and throw himself to the side before the horse was upon him. Marian let go, letting Jonquille sprint off into the woods, and rolled to soften her landing. Jonquille knew her home well—if she could not find Marian again, she’d make her way back to Midge.
John, now flailing in the leaves, had dropped his staff—Marian threw herself down and snatched it up. She could not wrap her whole hand around its diameter, but she shifted it until she had a decent grip and rolled to her feet again. She had the staff’s tip against Little John’s throat before he could stand.
“Well?” she asked, fighting hard to keep her breath steady, singing in and out through her nose.
Little John’s face was lax with surprise, and instinctively he lifted his hands, palms up, to show they were empty. He was struggling to speak, and Marian raised the staff a fraction so that he could swallow.
“Drop the staff.” His ally—Big John, he was called—spoke, and when Marian lifted her head, he was standing thirty paces away. He was scarcely taller than she, and certainly no bigger than Little John, but he stood with bow drawn and arrow nocked and eyes fixed on her.
At her feet, Little John coughed and called, “No, Alan, I gave my word. This Elena, whoever she is, may keep her ring.”
Big John—or Alan, as his comrade had named him—hesitated a brief second but then lowered the bow. The arrow stayed nocked to the string, though, and while John spluttered and chuckled, Alan watched her with hard, suspicious eyes. “Her name isn’t Elena,” he said.
John started to rise, but Marian could not afford to trust John’s word—or Alan’s obvious antipathy—and kept the staff in place, keeping him down. John made an exasperated sound. “God’s bones, Alan, you don’t think there might be more than one woman in England named Elena? Let me up, girl—you’ve won your point.”
“Forgive me if I don’t take the word of an outlaw,” Marian replied through gritted teeth.
“I swear upon my own grave, upon the executioner’s rope, no harm will come to you, girl, not while you’re in our forest.”
“Drop the bow,” Marian insisted, eyes on Alan.
“Drop the staff,” he countered, voice tightening.
“Christ,” muttered Little John. “Alan, put the bow down. You’re as like to shoot me as her. He couldn’t hit a tree in the middle of Sherwood,” he added, an aside to Marian.
Marian took a breath, and as Alan stooped to place his bow down amongst the leaves, she withdrew the end of the staff and stepped back.
“I’m looking for someone,” she said finally, glancing between the two men as Little John clambered to his feet. “A man, an outlaw like yourselves. He’s most likely to have been on foot, a few fingers taller than I, bearing a quality blade but dressed low, like you. Recently beaten.”
“We’ve seen no one,” said Alan, still glaring at her as though he itched to retrieve his bow.
“Why?” John asked, brushing leaves from his filthy clothes and picking a twig out of his beard. “What reason could a lady’s maid have for seeking an outlaw?”
Marian hesitated. “He’s—my brother. The food and medicines were for him. He’s being pursued by one of the Sheriff’s lieutenants, a man named Guy of Gisborne, and I hoped that if he had supplies enough, he could hide until the law tired of seeking him.”
Little John glanced at Alan, whose face was turning red, eyes narrowed as he spoke. “You’re speaking of Will Scarlet. Which would make you Elena Scarlet?”