Lady Cecile, the youngest daughter of one of the minor visiting nobles, declared that Robin Hood was “just like a knight of Arthur’s court,” and that he was welcome to her jewels anytime.
Marian winced and sucked at her finger where she’d stabbed it with the needle. She kept her eyes down, unable to dismiss from her imagination what Alan might say to that.
Cecile’s sister, Tess, who’d always struck Marian as the more practical of the two, shot Cecile a dark look. “He’s a traitor and a thief. And anyway, you wouldn’t think he was so romantic up close. He lives in the forest, Cess—he must smell like a sty.”
Marian concentrated on the lopsided periwinkle she was embroidering. I smell a good deal better than the men who live in luxury, thank you.
Of all the women except Marian, only one kept silent on the subject, though she was the only one among them with anything of fact to contribute. Seild was playing a lap harp and seemed focused on that task. Her notes never faltered as the other ladies spoke, and indeed she’d offered so little about her encounter with the increasingly infamous Robin Hood that the others seemed to have forgotten it entirely.
She did, however, glance up as conversation drifted away from the outlaw. Her eyes met Marian’s, and her fingers struck a sour note. No one noticed, but Seild’s lips twitched in a faint, rueful smile.
Cecile wasn’t the only one who found the much-embellished tales of Robin Hood romantic.
As midday arrived, and the ladies drifted away to meet their husbands and fathers as the men broke for food and restoration, Seild bade Marian stay behind and dismissed her servant so that they were alone.
“How are you, Marian?” Seild sounded tired, and after a moment, she reached up and lifted the coronet of silver and lace that covered her hair—a replacement for the pearl-adorned net that Robin Hood had stolen. Her fingers combed through the copper braids until her hair hung loose, an intimacy that she’d never shared with Marian before. Seild was always proper, even around other ladies—she never went anywhere with her head uncovered, never spoke a word out of turn.
“I’m well,” Marian said, fighting a rising sense of unease and confusion. “A little sick for missing home, perhaps.”
Seild flashed her a wan smile. “Edwinstowe is beautiful,” she agreed. “I wish I shared your fondness for home.”
Her tone was rich with such uncharacteristic bitterness that Marian leaned forward. “What is wrong?”
“Lord Owen has decided that we will leave Nottingham early. In two days’ time.”
“Because of the hooded man? Because he thinks you may still be in danger?”
Seild’s lips twitched, but the expression they formed could not have been called a smile. “He was less concerned with the theft and the danger to me than he was with the possibility that people might notice he was not in my bed at the time.”
“I didn’t want to ask,” Marian murmured.
“It’s all right.” Seild was inspecting the coronet with a frown, fingertips rubbing at a spot on her scalp. “He prefers the company of women who are too afraid to refuse him.”
After the silence stretched a beat too long, Seild looked up and saw the helpless anger in Marian’s face. She smiled and closed the distance between them, taking Marian’s hand. “Don’t fret, dear,” she told her, with that oddly maternal air that seemed so strange from a woman only a few years her senior. “I’m quite accustomed to his ways. I wanted to tell you I was leaving, as Lord Owen is keeping it secret until we’ve gone. And I wanted to warn you.”
“Warn me?” Marian gave Seild’s fingers a light squeeze, but to her the gesture felt lacking, a feeble echo of Seild’s reassurance. She wanted to say more, find words to express the sympathy and the hurt in her own heart for Seild’s unhappy marriage, but the trueness of it stuck in her throat.
“There are rumors, Marian.” Seild’s expression turned grave. “Everyone knows this Robin Hood is not your Robin, but knowledge has little impact on rumor—that he wears his name and mantle makes them think there must be a connection.”
Marian started to protest, the words coming more easily now than they ever had before—lying was becoming more natural than speaking truth.
Seild shook her head, silencing Marian far more effectively than had she simply interrupted. “At best, people think you are sympathetic to his cause. At worst . . . they think you might be