She heard the murmurs of awe and excitement, and she could not blame them for staying long enough to make sure their message struck home.
Alan had paused, just before they parted ways. At the edge of the forest, he’d gestured to the others and turned toward Marian with a troubled look.
“He’s not Robin,” he said quietly. “Will says his manner is different, and his voice is not the same. But you, my Lady—you know him. Knew him. Both of them—the man who died in the Holy Land, and the man who now bears his name, who sent you here to us.”
Marian’s heart pounded, and she knew her face must show some of her tension, for Alan’s gaze softened.
“Who is he?”
Marian had known the question would come, though she had hoped they’d wait until after the success of their plot. If they failed, she wouldn’t have to explain anything to them. But she’d rehearsed her answer as she made her way back to the camp with Jonquille, saying over and over the words she hoped would put an end to their questions.
“It isn’t the same man,” she agreed. “He’s no man I’ve ever met before. But this man—this Robin of the Hood—he shares Robin of Locksley’s heart. They’re of the same spirit. I feel as if I’ve known him all my life, the way I knew Robin. I trust him as I’d trust myself.” The others were listening, standing some paces away, and Marian had to pause to draw in more breath to keep her voice steady. “I cannot explain it, Alan-a-Dale, any more than I can explain God or the sunrise. But perhaps something of Robin of Locksley’s soul is here, as Will believed that first night. Perhaps, though it’s not the same body, it is in some way the same person.”
Little John had glanced upward, lips moving as if in a silent prayer. Will was watching her speak with an echo of the passion with which he’d pleaded for Marian to stay safe and out of trouble. Alan, though, was gazing not at her, but through her, as though his eyes were seeing something of that same vision Marian had experienced, imagining the life she could lead as Robin Hood. He blinked, his eyes rimmed in red, and turned away.
“I hope you’re right, Lady.”
Now, half-concealed in the shadow of the wall, Marian fingered the fletching of the arrows at her hip. If the guards came, and came quickly, she would have to single-handedly buy Robin’s men—her men—time to escape.
A scrape from the gates jerked her attention away from the seething mass of bodies surrounding her cohorts. The gates started to creak open, but at an outraged whinny of protest from Jonquille, they paused long enough for one bewildered guard to slip through and deal with the horse and get a look at the chaos outside. Marian looked back at the crowd, and this time she could not see John, nor hear Alan’s voice. She lifted her eyes and caught a glimpse of a few shadows vanishing into the trees.
The turbulent mass of people pressed in around the gates, stirred up by their excitement—and, for those who’d been lucky enough to receive one of the pearls, their need to find a merchant who would trade for them. The lone guard called out in confusion, and one of his fellows came out to help usher Jonquille in through the gates, which closed again behind them.
Marian let her breath out and then withdrew, squatting by the wall in the dubious shelter of a lean-to that would’ve done little to protect its occupant from the weather. She leaned her head back against the rock, eyes open and ears tuned, and began to wait.
The guards would have to bring Jonquille to the stables. It would take time for her to be recognized by someone who knew she was Marian’s horse. More time to connect the horse’s arrival and the lady’s disappearance. At some point someone—a stableboy—would notice the message tucked into Jonquille’s tack. More time to locate someone capable of reading it.
And then . . . Marian had no way of knowing how long it would take the Sheriff to act on the note’s contents. Or if he would act. Certainly, on the surface, he could not sacrifice the life of a gentle, well-bred noblewoman to protect his material gains. But the Sheriff had not gathered such power without the use of his wits, and she could not be sure he wouldn’t