found while running from Gisborne her first night in Nottingham and pulled the unknown woman’s dress and cap from the basket. She exchanged her soft shift for the rough-spun, unbleached version Elena had provided, and pulled the stiff gray overmantle on with some difficulty. It was far too small for her, but she’d been expecting that—few women had her height.
The dagger she’d brought with her, bound to her thigh, no more showed under the washwoman’s dress than it had her own.
She hastened to hide her own clothing in among the linens again, then tucked the basket up against her hip like she’d seen servants do and slipped back into the corridor again. She hadn’t gone more than a few paces before she heard the approach of heavy boots, and her pulse quickened. She glued her gaze to the floor and stepped to the side for whoever it was, trying to will herself to be small and unnoticeable.
It was a guard. His steps never changed, and when she finally risked lifting her eyes, all she saw was the back of his chain mail, retreating on down the passageway.
She exhaled, shaky and slow, and hurried down toward the caves.
The guard on duty by the jail’s entrance scarcely glanced at her when she passed him. She kept her eyes down and said nothing. The slope of the floor carried any spilled or dripping water down each side of the hall, but when it grew thick and sludgy with grime, it had to be brushed along the channels. A stinking brown edge of slime, and the bucket of wash water, told her where to start.
She began to scrub, pushing the gunk down toward the caves. She longed to hurry toward Will’s cell, but she was only a few paces past the guard. While he might not have noticed her arrival, he’d be bound to notice her moving with purpose toward the tunnels beneath the castle.
Her knees began to ache, and her fingers went numb before long. She was sweating, and as her body heat warmed her stolen clothes, they began to smell unpleasantly—Marian didn’t know whether it was her own sweat or that of the woman who normally wore this dress, but either way, it mingled with the increasingly rank odor of the jail cells beyond.
Robin, she thought miserably, what I wouldn’t give for you to be here. You’d storm the place with sword and bow in hand, neatly incapacitate the guards, and get Will out in a matter of minutes. It’d be daring and exciting and romantic, and most important, I wouldn’t be any part of it.
Though if she, or anyone else, had stormed the place by force, the guard she’d snuck past would probably be dead. Along with any others who’d heard the commotion and come to assist.
By the time the tunnel curved enough that she was out of sight of the guard, her knuckles were bleeding from scraping against the stone, and her back was screaming a protest. She glanced over her shoulder to check that she was alone, then staggered upright. You don’t see us, Elena had told her. Marian, flushed with exertion and damp with sweat, had to agree with her maid. She’d seen the woman yesterday, seen enough of her to formulate this plan, but she hadn’t really seen the work she was doing.
Marian stifled a groan, picked up her basket, and made for the cells.
Will glanced at her and then away when she arrived. Marian had to fight a smile. You don’t see us. It was not a blindness limited to noblemen. She was a woman in working clothes—she was a servant. She couldn’t help him.
“Will,” she whispered.
“Wha—Marian?” Will started, and leaped to his feet in surprise.
She put a finger to her lips, glancing back along the tunnel. Then she turned and gathered up the hem of her skirt, pulling it up so she could retrieve the dagger she’d brought. It was an awkward and cumbersome process—if she’d been confronted, there was no way she’d have been able to draw the weapon quickly enough to aid herself—but that wasn’t why she’d brought it.
She knelt before the lock and eased the tip of the dagger inside. She had to work by feel, and her work-numbed fingers were clumsy with muscle cramp and swollen joints.
Robin had taught her this. Or maybe she had taught him—they’d learned together, certainly, for none of his weapons masters or history tutors would have shown the future Lord of Locksley how to pick a