by Anna Burke
Midge shook her head, wordless.
“It’s the only way I can keep them safe.”
“She’ll hate you for this, assuming it doesn’t kill her.”
“Maybe. But if I’m dead, they can’t use me against her. I can hunt for all of us, like Michael used to, but I won’t get caught again.” She would be more careful, this time. She’d hunt deep in the woods and only bring game home under the cover of darkness. She would . . . Midge’s voice interrupted her planning.
“This is stupid, Robyn. There has to be another way.”
“Do you have any better ideas?”
“I will if you would give me time to think.”
“There isn’t time.”
“What if there is, and you throw everything away? You don’t get to come back from the dead once you’re dead. I would have thought you knew that after Michael.”
The glare that passed between them was the sort that started tavern brawls.
“I’ll stay the night then,” Robyn said, dropping her gaze as guilt won out. “But in the mill, not here. I can hide in the eaves the way you used to. But I’m leaving in the morning.”
“Where will you go?”
Robyn pulled an arrow out of the quiver still on her back and laid it on the table, running her finger along the smooth wood of the shaft where it met the feathers and over the maker’s mark that her father had passed down to his ill-fated children. “Sherwood.”
Midge opened her mouth to argue, no doubt thinking of her sister Mary, who had been assaulted by Sherwood bandits. Her eyebrows furrowed as she turned this new idea over. “That bastard Siward’s out there,” she said, her eyes transfixed by the arrow between them. “You know what he did to Mary. And there are foresters, and wolves, and all sorts of other things.”
“It’s a place to start, at least. It’s almost May. There will be plenty to eat between now and harvest time, and by then I’ll have figured something else out.”
“What about the outlaws?”
“Isn’t that what I am?”
“Not technically. Nobody has ordered your arrest. You’re drowning in the river, remember?”
“It’s the sheriff that worries me right now. Not Siward.” She made herself sound braver than she felt. “And the foresters don’t usually go into the deeper parts of the forest, according to Cedric.” Cedric had also explained that this was, in part, because the outlaws in Sherwood’s heart were better armed and better woodsmen than the sheriff’s men, but she didn’t think that was something Midge needed to know at the moment.
“What about me?”
Robyn glanced up, startled. “What do you mean?”
“How will I find you?”
“You won’t. It would be too dangerous.” She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Midge’s eyes flashed, and she stood, drawing herself up to her diminutive height.
“If it is too dangerous, Robyn Fletcher, then you shouldn’t be out there.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Here’s what is going to happen. If, and only if, I do this for you, you will tell me exactly how to find you, and if you are not where you say you will be, so help me God, Robyn, I will hang you myself.”
So be it. She did not have time to argue. Robyn took her cousin’s hands in hers and gave them a firm squeeze. “I promise, Midge, that you, and only you, will have the privilege of hanging me.”
• • •
The cry of an owl woke her the next morning. Midge, she thought, opening her eyes. Two large yellow orbs stared back at her as the disgruntled former occupant of the eaves hopped closer. Outside, songbirds stirred sleepily, the threat of swooping owls past. Robyn, however, gave the cruel, curved beak a nervous glance. Starlight and the first gray glow of dawn filtered through chinks in the thatch. Her uncle needed to get it redone this year, and Robyn had already promised him she would find time to help. Too late for that, too.
The owl, apparently deciding that she wasn’t a threat, sidestepped further down the broad beam and settled in for the day. She watched it for a while and tried to force herself not to think about Gwyneth and the baby and the shafts waiting to be fletched on her table, or the wooden staves curing in the corner, the shape of the bows-to-be clear in her mind’s eye. Michael had some skill as a bowyer, too, and she’d been learning the craft from him before the sheriff had hanged him without a trial and forced her to live by the bow, instead of by making them. The baby would be fussing by now, and Gwyneth would have already risen to kindle the breakfast fire, perhaps hoping to find Robyn curled up on the workbench beneath Michael’s old cloak.
I’m sorry, Gwyn. She willed the words to find their way down the rutted path from Papplewick to Nottingham, along the River Leen and through the gate to the town below the castle on the hill where her sister-in-law no doubt paced the floor, fear souring the morning.
Another owl cry floated through the warm air of the mill. The owl to her left tilted his head, intrigued by the promise of mate or foe. Robyn whistled back. This earned her a startled hoot from her feathered companion, and then the owl took off for a less occupied rafter as Midge clambered up onto the beam.
“I’ll do it,” she said, not meeting Robyn’s eye. “But you will owe me for this for the rest of your life.”
Robyn didn’t bother mentioning that the rest of her life might not be such a long time. “I know.”
Midge hauled a sack up beside her. “I brought you a few things.”
Robyn couldn’t make out much of her face in the dark, but the tone of her voice spoke volumes. “Did you sleep at all?” she asked her cousin.
“Just promise me you’ll be careful. You should go, now, before my father wakes up.”
You should go, little bird. Michael’s voice echoed Midge’s, gruff and sweet and familiar. She heard it more clearly than she’d heard it since his death, and with it came a curious weightlessness as the future she’d labored over with every waking breath slipped out of her reach forever. “Meet me in two days,” she said, still floating. “Follow the river until you come to the first stream, then follow that until you see a hill covered in chestnut trees, about two more miles. I’ll be waiting.”
“We will take care of Gwyneth. Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
“I promise. And, Midge, be careful.”
“Can I bring you anything?”
Robyn thought about this before answering. What did she have that couldn’t be left behind? The little wooden robin Michael had carved for her could go to Symon, and she still wore her brother’s hunting clothes. They would serve for now. “Arrows, and a second bowstring if you can manage it,” she said, resisting the urge to ask for something to remind her of Gwyneth and the baby.
“I will manage.”
Midge clambered down. Robyn followed, and they stood in the predawn light avoiding each other’s eyes until the sound of a screaming infant penetrated the stone walls of the mill.
“Two days, Robyn.”
“I’ll be there.”
Shouldering the satchel, she eased open the door of the mill and followed the riverbank into the forest. Her body ached worse than it had yesterday, bruised from an uncomfortable night spent crammed below the thatch, and she itched on top of it—probably the parting gift of the biting insects that made the roof their home. Gwyneth would tell her not to irritate the bites. Her heart ached at the thought, but the weightlessness continued to buoy her as the mill faded from sight and the dark shadows of the forest enveloped her.
I killed a man. I lost my family, my business, and my future. She repeated these things to herself with every step, but a different thought kept trying to surface as she brushed cobwebs from her face.
I’m free.
Noise ahead of her broke her out of these thoughts. The cheerful voice of a pig herder urged his charges down to the water to drink, and the pigs scattered ducks and wading birds before them as they snuffled and grunted at the water’s edge. Robyn disappeared
as best she could into the trees and gave the pigs and their keeper a wide berth. This part of the forest was open, grazed by swine and sheep and goats, and harvested by the people she’d grown up with. That glen there was where the best chanterelles grew, and broad clearings fed the herds of red and roe deer that roamed the forest under the protection of the king. Here by the river flourished the best blackberries and raspberries. Her arms bore the faint scars of years of picking berries with Midge and the other village children, and she touched the nearest bramble, letting the thorns catch at her fingers.
She walked until the sun began its descent toward the western horizon, keeping the river always to her left. The trees grew closer together here, and moss-covered boulders sprouted among their roots like sentinels, watching her. This was deeper into the woods than she’d ever been. The forest road lay somewhere to the east, bisecting Sherwood and cutting through the small village of Edwinstowe that lay in the forest’s heart, but between the road and the borders of the woodland spread vast tracts of wilderness. Lose her bearings, and she would be hard pressed to meet up with Midge, let alone find her way out of the woods ever again.
The massive corpse of a toppled great oak caught her eye. The roots reached halfway up the trunks of the nearby trees, moss clinging to them, and the trunk promised shelter from the heavy clouds rolling in. Robyn poked at the hollow with the stave of her bow, not wanting to disturb anything with teeth, and settled herself in the soft loam to examine the contents of her sack.
Bread, more cheese, and some hard sausages wrapped in cloth were tucked beside the shriveled remains of the last of the winter apples. A flagon of ale sloshed at the bottom. She tried not to dwell on how long it would last her. She had her knife and her bow, and the wool of her brother’s tunic was thick enough to withstand the damp, chilly night ahead. The past two days had soaked it with her sweat, but she could still catch a lingering whiff of her brother if she buried her face in the sleeve. His clothes fit her well. Both she and Michael had inherited their father’s height, and testing out the new bows she had made over the past year had filled out her shoulders. Sturdy boots, made from rich dark leather, were laced up her calves. She checked the laces for signs of fraying. The cobbler’s work held. As long as she kept the hood over her face and wore her dark hair loose like a boy, she might pass for a man from a distance. Walking in the deep woods as a woman carried risks she didn’t like considering.
The reality of her situation hit her the next day. Birdsong filled the woods and roused her from troubled sleep, and she watched dawn break over the forest from her nest of leaves. Noon came and went. She got up to urinate, then returned to the shelter of the trunk and observed the passage of wood lice over its rough surface with dispassionate interest.
Images of Gwyneth’s grief filled her mind. Symon, at least, was too young to understand what was happening, but she knew Gwyneth would never forgive her, nor could she forgive herself. All she could do now was wait for Midge to make sure her family was safe, and then she would vanish.
Chapter Six
Spring came early that year. Marian woke to golden light and the soft sound of Emmeline’s snores as she extricated herself from her embrace, easing Henri’s arms from around her neck in the process. The large featherbed held the three of them easily, plus the sleeping body of Emmeline’s favorite sight hound, and while normally Marian burrowed deeper beneath the covers if she woke before Emmeline, something about the morning light caught her breath. She slipped into a robe and rekindled the fire before opening the shutters to a cacophony of birdsong.
Harcourt Manor lay inside the borders of Sherwood Forest. The road to the manor always felt like an adventure, with its twisting oak trees and brambly hedges. Once home, though, it was easy to believe that this was the only place in the world. She could see the trees in the distance, past fields green with spring wheat and glistening with dew. A low line of mist still hovered at the edge of the forest, but the sun had already burned it off from the fields. Serfs tended to their crops, and she could hear the bustle from the manor kitchen garden.
“Good morning,” she whispered, smiling into the light as the scent of soil and sap flooded her lungs.
She fetched water and tea for Emmeline, returning before her mistress woke. The light teased the golden strands from Emmeline’s hair and lit red fires in Henri’s brown curls.
“Rise and shine, little lord,” she said to the boy as she stroked his head. He blinked at her sleepily and extended his arms, begging to be lifted. Marian scooped him onto her hip and winced at the weight. “You’re getting too big for this,” she told him. He sucked on his thumb in response. “Shall we wake your mother?”
He nodded, his eyes roving toward the bread and jam on the breakfast tray.
“Emmeline,” Marian said, resting a hand on Emmeline’s shoulder. She hated waking her. When she slept, Emmeline still looked like the young girl who had led Marian in secret games of chase around her father’s manor, pilfering fruit from the kitchen and riding her father’s old warhorse whenever the grooms were distracted. These days, worry had etched new lines in her face, and Marian ached to see it. Emmeline opened her eyes and promptly shut them, squinting in the sunlight.
“Wake up, mummy,” Henri said from his perch on Marian’s hip.
“Tea?”
“God bless you, yes.” Emmeline sat up and let her unbound hair fall heavily over her shoulder and into her lap. Marian smoothed a lock behind Emmeline’s ear and cupped her friend’s cheek where the imprint from the pillow had left a memory of its weave on her skin. This was the life she wanted. Friends, the sweet warmth of Henri in her arms, and a glorious spring day ahead of them.
This was what she was going to lose.
She fetched the tea, a task that was complicated by Henri’s refusal to leave her arms, and handed the mug to Emmeline. Emmeline sighed with satisfaction as she took a sip.
“I want tea,” said Henri.
“You don’t like tea,” Marian pointed out.
“Then I want jam.”
“Would you like bread with that jam?”
Henri considered this solemnly, then nodded. Marian prepared them all thick slices of bread smeared with some of the previous season’s blackberry preserves, enjoying the warm breeze that wafted through the open window. She licked her fingers clean and extricated herself from Henri, seizing his mother’s hairbrush from his sticky fingers.
“Mmm,” Emmeline murmured as Marian settled behind her and gathered her hair for detangling. Emmeline had thick, soft tresses that shimmered beneath the brush strokes as Marian worked out the knots. The simplicity of the motion soothed them both. She gathered the hair into two parts and rose on her knees to begin braiding. Her fingers wove the strands from memory, and Henri flopped into his mother’s lap to stare up at her, making animal noises for reasons known only to him. Marian’s hands brushed the skin of Emmeline’s shoulders as she worked, and she retrieved a rogue strand from Emmeline’s bosom with an expert flick of her fingers.
Willa’s unwelcome words crashed into her as her eyes traced the visible swell of Emmeline’s breasts beneath her shift. She blushed, grateful that Emmeline could not see her, and bit her lip as she finished braiding. She was not like Willa. She was not like Willa at all, and she wished the redhead had never spoken those damned words. She would not have taken note of Emmeline’s figure otherwise.
Emmeline sighed as Marian finished, and leaned back into her arms. Emmeline’s body, still heavy with sleep, melded into hers, and she tilted her head back against Marian’s shoulder. Marian stiffened. Henri, never one to miss an opportunity for cuddling, curled up in his mother’s lap like a puppy. Emmeline plucked at his ringlets with an idle hand.
The feel of Emmeline’s body flush against hers was familiar, and yet today felt different. The smell of Emmeline’s hair, perfumed with rose oil and redolent of sunshine and honey from yesterday’s visit to the manor hives, made her head swim, and the warmth radiating from Emmeline’s bod
y seemed to pool between Marian’s thighs. Emmeline sighed in contentment and began speaking of the needs of the day. Marian tried to listen, but there was a buzzing in her head that had nothing to do with memories of bees and everything to do with the way Emmeline’s hips felt between her legs: soft and solid and strong.
Fear closed her throat. This was wrong. This was Emmeline, her closest friend, the woman who had brought her into her family and made Marian as much a part of it as Connor or Henri, and she should not be having lustful thoughts about her.
I’m not, she told herself. I’ve never wanted her. Not once. Not in all the nights we’ve spent together have I thought of touching her the way Alanna touched Willa. Now, though, she wondered what it might be like to bury her face in Emmeline’s hair, not as her handmaid, but as . . . as what?
“Excuse me,” she said, interrupting Emmeline’s discussion of the recent litter of sight hounds. She detached herself from the tangle of limbs, not looking at Emmeline as she made an excuse about the latrine.
Outside in the hall, she pressed her face against the cool stone wall and felt the prick of shameful tears. What is wrong with me? She felt polluted, as if what she’d witnessed between Willa and Alanna had planted a seed inside her, and now it put out roots and shoots and curled around everything that mattered. A passing servant threw her a concerned glance, and she waved him away.
I will rise above this. This was simply a test, and with enough penance perhaps she could weed it out. And if I can’t?
I will. I am not Willa. I cannot be like Willa.
Chapter Seven
Robyn fidgeted with a stick as the afternoon light waned. If Midge didn’t get here soon, her cousin would be walking home in the dark, and Midge didn’t know the woods well enough to make that journey safely. The hill afforded her as clear a view of the surrounding countryside as one ever had in the forest. She could see the silver ribbon of the river below and the vast expanse of treetops spreading out in either direction, tendrils of mist rising over distant glens. It looked like a tapestry from here, plush and uniform, gentle even. She could wrap herself up in a view like this.
