They were waiting for some change they knew would not come, marking the hours and days and years only to pass the time.
Marian, chest tight and aching, tried to keep her eyes on Jonquille’s mane. But she could not close her ears to their voices, and in the midst of the cries for alms, she heard her name. She glanced over and saw two boys—brothers, by their identical long noses and straw-colored hair—watching her. One was whispering to the other, and her ears picked out another name: Robin. The younger boy’s eyes went wide, and when he saw her looking, he drew closer to his brother.
It seemed Will’s story about Robin’s return from the grave had spread. And they recognized her as his Lady.
Despite the fear in the smaller boy’s eyes at the notion of ghosts and spirits, the older brother’s gaze held something else, something Marian recognized.
Hope.
Marian pulled her eyes away, uncomfortable, unsettled. It was the same look she’d seen on the faces of the men she’d met in Sherwood—a look that made her deception, unintentional though it had been, feel like a crime. Robin hadn’t returned—he never would, except in the hidden turmoil of Marian’s thoughts. No one was coming to save them.
Guards met their party in the courtyard of Nottingham Castle, and Midge took his leave to see to the horses while a scullery girl led Marian and her father into the keep and brought them to their rooms. Elena followed close behind.
Marian sighed and went to the window, a narrow slit in the wall barely wide enough to see out. Just as well the windows are tiny, she thought, gazing down at the gray stone city and its sluggish market and huddled masses. Their rooms were selected for their indoor comforts—a hearth, a raised and canopied bed, tapestries on the walls—and not for their views outside.
In the corridor, booted feet arrived to fetch her father for the first of his meetings with the other nobles. Their bags arrived moments later, brought up by a pair of stable hands. Elena began unpacking Marian’s things, but her hands were shaking so that when she pulled out the cloth brush for Marian’s dresses, it clattered to the stone.
“I’ll do that,” Marian said gently. The odds of a servant gaining access to the castle’s jail were slim, but Elena wouldn’t rest easy until she’d tried.
Her maid flashed her a wide-eyed look of gratitude and fled.
Marian let her breath out, reaching for the saddlebags. If nothing else, she could not let Elena see what lay concealed beneath the dresses she’d brought.
She tossed a gown of burgundy wool onto the bed, and two shifts alongside it, until she saw a flash of green beneath her blue kirtle. She’d slipped away the day before to retrieve more of Robin’s clothing from his room, dodging the steward—now she had leggings, a shirt and tunic, and his belt. The night Will mistook her for Robin, she hadn’t had time to disguise herself completely. This time, she would not rely on darkness and luck.
Marian was pulling the cloak out from underneath the rest of the clothes when the latch on her door grated. She threw the bag to the floor, kicking it up against the edge of the bed as a maid—not Elena—stepped inside and curtsied. “Begging your pardon, my Lady. The Lady Seild invites you to join her and the other visiting ladies in the southern solar for music and conversation once you are recovered from your journey.”
Lady Seild—that was Lord Owen’s wife. She’d always been kind to Marian, though rather baffled as to what to do with her—she was well-meaning, with her invitations to long afternoons of sewing, chess, and gardening. Closer to Marian’s age than her husband’s, she nonetheless treated Marian with a maternal air, as if Marian were some wayward child, growing up motherless.
Marian hadn’t thought about the fact that she wouldn’t be the only woman traveling to Nottingham—while the men had their council, their ladies would have their own.
“I’m—I’m unwell,” said Marian, though she could feel her face flushing. “Please send Lady Seild my apologies and thank her for inviting me.”
“As you wish, my Lady.” The maid dipped into another curtsy and then scurried off.
Marian sagged against the edge of the bed. You’d think you’d never told a lie in your life, said Robin in her thoughts, laughing and gentle.
“Lies, yes,” murmured Marian in reply. “But none that carried the weight of so many lives.”