helping him.”
Marian reminded herself that Gisborne had already suffered these same suspicions, and had disproven them to his satisfaction. “Thank you for the warning,” she murmured. “I am grateful, truly.”
Seild scanned her features, searching, then released her hand. “Two days’ time,” she said, echoing the time frame carefully. “And Lord Owen intends to travel with a much-reduced escort, so as not to attract attention from the outlaws. He’s hoping no one will see him go.”
The woman’s eyes were intent upon Marian’s, and Marian could not think why. She was sad to see her friend go—and sadder still to see her so unhappy in her marriage—but why Seild was running over the details of their departure, she had not an idea.
Seild was watching her face. “So take care you don’t share what you know with anyone. Especially not outlaws who might prey upon Lord Owen’s cowardice. And especially not outlaws who might use his wealth to good purpose.”
Marian sat dumbfounded, watching as Seild’s lips twitched to the tiniest of smiles. She’d seen realization strike Marian.
“Go, Marian. Speak to your outlaw.”
“Seild—” croaked Marian, trying to form the words of a protest. But her mind was already working, already calculating the timing, imagining and discarding plans, counting the wealth of jewels and gold her men could redistribute.
“The people down there are not the only ones starving,” Seild whispered, tilting her head toward the slit window that overlooked Nottingham town. “Go.”
Marian shook off her confusion and moved forward, bending so that she could kiss Seild’s cheek. She said nothing—she did not think Seild wanted gratitude. She slipped out before she could betray anything more to her keen-eyed friend.
Too restless to stay in her room, Marian abandoned the castle and went out to the stables, seeking Jonquille’s company. The sky was a clear, uninterrupted blue, the air crisp with wood smoke. The chill had dampened the sharper, more acrid smells that Marian associated with Nottingham and the sheer number of people who lived within its walls so that more delicate odors washed across the courtyard. Someone not far from the castle was brewing cider, the sour, cloying smell of fermentation not unpleasant amid the crowd of other autumn aromas: damp earth, pickling spices, beeswax, hay and horses, bonfire ash, and the ineffable and increasingly pervasive scent of fallen leaves.
Midge was working on Jonquille’s tack when Marian strode into the stables. He saw her and straightened, eyes lighting. “Good afternoon, my Lady. I’m glad you came, I was going to have Elena summon you.”
“Summon me? Why, is Jonquille hurt?” Marian moved past her father’s stable master until she could see her horse for herself. The mare bobbed her head in greeting, and though Marian imagined she saw a spark of resentment in those round, dark eyes for abandoning her at Nottingham’s gates, the horse lipped at her hair the way she always did, shifting her weight as she wondered whether they’d be going out for a ride.
“Not at all. But when you went out on Jonquille the other day,” Midge said, referring to it without emphasis, as if she were taken hostage on a regular basis, “you had someone else saddle her.”
Marian blinked. “You weren’t here, and I was only planning on being out for an hour or so.” Which was not true—she’d avoided Midge, knowing he might check her saddlebags as he secured them to make sure the load was even, and find Robin’s clothes.
Midge only grunted, leaning into the saddle brush. Marian waited, but the man kept working for a time in silence, giving her little notice. Just as she was about to give up and demand an explanation, he set the brush aside and stood. He heaved the saddle up and onto its rack. “Some years ago,” he said, almost as though talking to himself, “you asked me about changing Jonquille’s tack so you could shoot better.”
Marian watched him work, bemused. She had indeed asked him about that very issue—when she was nine. She’d wanted a way to use her legs to steer her horse, freeing her hands for the bow, so she would not have to dismount or stop her horse to fire. Time, and familiarity with her horse, had taught her other ways of managing horse and bow simultaneously—Jonquille now responded as readily to a nudge of her knee as a tug on her reins.
Midge wiped his oil-stained hands on a rag and then scratched at his chin, fingernails rasping over his stubbly beard. “Been on my mind lately. Opens up