cattle, waiting and hungry. And ignorant of the wealth of food lying behind the castle’s stone walls.
“When do you give the Sheriff your account?” She put gravel in her voice.
“By month’s end.”
Marian could not very well push barrows of stolen wheat through the castle, either as herself or as Robin—but neither could she let such a cache of food go to fill the Sheriff’s coffers while his people starved. She’d figure out later how to rob him of his ill-gotten stores.
Later? said Robin in her mind. Before or after you escape, and save Will, and somehow avoid marrying Gisborne . . . ?
“How does the Sheriff transport his goods?” she whispered, cutting Robin off before he could change her mind.
But the man wasn’t listening, the tremble coming back into his body as he stared at her. He was only a decade or so older than she, though labor and poor lighting had left his face lined around eyes and mouth. “You’re—you’re the ghost. The one they say came back from the Holy War, from fighting with the King.”
Marian took a breath to fend off frustration. “Will you help me?”
The man swallowed nervously, eyes going from her face—hidden beneath the shadow of her hood—to the sword in her hand. “What need have ghosts of grain and coin, Lord?”
“It’s not my need,” Marian whispered. “Have you family in Nottingham?”
The man nodded, throat bobbing. “Two lads and a wee girl.”
“Then sell the Sheriff out for them, for this grain should go to feed the hungry, and not to line the Sheriff’s pockets with more gold.”
“Caravan,” the man said finally. Then, after looking at the sword in her hand again, he added, “The carts are well guarded on the road, Lord.”
Marian felt a grim smile touch her face, though under her hood the tally man wouldn’t be able to see it. “I am well warned.” She drew back toward the door again, leaning close to listen for footsteps outside. “Where is the nearest stair up?”
“That way, Lord.” The man pointed, hand still shaking, back the way Marian had come.
“My thanks.” Marian lifted the latch.
“You don’t—you don’t seem like no spirit.” The man had taken a step forward, fear making way for a sliver of curiosity.
Marian paused. “How many spirits have you met?” She left him there, staring after her and rubbing the cold from his joints.
To her relief, the tally man’s word was true: the stair was where he’d said it would be. She hurried up, stopping this time to peer around the corner to check that the hall was empty. This part of the castle she knew—she’d walked this way countless times. A few minutes and she’d be back in the safety of her room, which lay beyond the next intersection.
She was halfway down the corridor when the sound of booted feet told her of a patrol approaching. She caught her breath, turning to flee back toward the stairwell, but it was too far behind her now; the patrol would spot her before she reached the shadows of the stairs. Her eyes darted around the hall for any means of escape and fell upon one of the heavy oaken doors. Ordinarily this part of the castle held few people, but now, with every nobleman in Nottingham visiting . . .
Marian uttered a curse and slipped inside the nearest room. She eased the door closed seconds before the sound of boots passed—only to hear a gasp and a scurry of fabric behind her. She turned to see a woman in the high canopied bed, bedsheets clutched to her, long copper braid shining pale in the moonlight coming from the slit window.
Seild.
THIRTEEN
MARIAN FROZE, TOO STUNNED by her poor luck to think. Seild gave a little cry upon seeing the sword in her hand, drawing back against the headboard.
Marian raised her empty hand to her lips—a signal for quiet. Seild obeyed, her gaze shifting from the shadows beneath Marian’s hood to the sword’s point. Marian listened at the door for signs that anyone had seen her enter, but instead she heard a voice, distorted by the echoing stone but nonetheless recognizable: Gisborne.
“Guards at each stairwell and intersection,” he was saying. “No man gets through unsearched, servant or Lord.”
Marian squeezed her eyes closed a moment. She must have betrayed something in her manner, her step, for Gisborne suspected that “Locksley” might be a nobleman and not a common thief. He’d anticipated her, blocked off her retreat. He must have come straight here after losing sight of her.