by Anna Burke
“Wait,” said Midge, pausing before taking her leave. “What about the spring fair?”
“What about it?”
“You should come.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea, Midge.”
“No one will recognize you, and there will be so many people there anyway that you’ll be safe.”
“Midge, I—”
“And then there’s the archery contest.”
“And also the sheriff.”
“You could see Gwyneth.”
That took Robyn’s breath away. She glanced at John for backup, but he seemed intrigued by the idea.
“There will be a lot of traffic on the road to the fair,” John said. “And more leaving, once they’ve had enough to drink.”
Which will make them easier to rob, Robyn realized as she followed John’s train of thought. It was risky. Far riskier than poaching, but what was the worst that could happen? They’d be caught and hanged, which wasn’t exactly a change of circumstance.
“I’ll think about it,” said Robyn.
This seemed to satisfy Midge, for her face split in a wide smile and she gave Robyn a quick hug. “Be safe,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.”
“You’re lucky to have family like that,” said John as they watched Midge leave.
“Trust me,” Robyn replied. “I know.”
Chapter Ten
Harcourt joined Maunnesfeld for the first hunt of the season, along with most of Nottingham’s nearby nobility. Prince John himself kept a hunting lodge north of the River Maun, and while the prince was notably absent, his master of the hunt had promised plump hares and yearling deer fat with new grass. Rumor held that John had taken a trip across the channel for reasons that, while unknown, were suspected to have everything to do with his brother’s continued absence.
Marian didn’t think he’d gone to save him.
Damn you, Richard, she thought.
Spring rains had left deep ruts in the road. They caught unwary ankles and caused her horse to snort in irritation as the mare picked her way along the lane, following the rest of the hunting party. It wasn’t a real hunt, more of an excuse for the hounds to stretch their legs than anything, but Marian shared their enthusiasm. A warm breeze riffled her hair, bringing with it the smells of early flowers, fresh grass, and new leaves. She nudged her mare beside Emmeline’s and didn’t bother to chastise the animal for champing at the bit. The bay mare’s head tossed prettily, and the motion cast her long black mane into the wind.
“Thank God,” said Willa from Emmeline’s other side as she checked the hood on her hawk. “If I had to spend one more day listening to my brother moaning about the cut of his clothes, I was going to fling myself from the tower.”
Both Emmeline and Willa had taken their goshawks from the mews, and Marian eyed the birds with both admiration and distrust. Emmeline’s hawk’s sharp beak had drawn its fair share of human blood, and while Willa’s hawk appeared to be more even-tempered than her mistress, Marian took no chances. Her own wrist was empty. Her hawk had died over the winter, and she hadn’t had the heart to replace it yet. Instead, she concentrated on the fresh air and the heavy scent of honeysuckle on the soft spring wind.
“Does your brother still fit into your clothes?” asked Alanna. She rode a plain palfrey, but the horse responded to her hands attentively and kept its composure, unlike Willa’s temperamental courser.
“I haven’t seen him trying, but who knows?” Willa said. “Ever since he grew a beard, he’s been insufferable.”
“You mean ever since he grew a beard you’ve been unable to trade places,” Emmeline corrected.
“What is the point of having a twin if you can’t make good use of it?”
A few of the hunting party’s unwed sons paused their horses by the three of them to exchange pleasantries and flirt. Emmeline deflected their attentions, safe in her marriage vows, but Marian and Willa were not so lucky.
“Come ride with us,” a comely youth urged Willa, letting his horse arch its neck and prance in place. Marian thought she recognized him. Perhaps he’d competed in last year’s tournament, for he rode with the self-assurance of a warrior and his young face was scarred. But you didn’t join the Crusade, she thought, which makes you richer than the rest of us. Emmeline’s husband wasn’t the exception; many of the nobles had chosen to go on Crusade instead of paying the Saladin Tax exacted by Richard.
“I’d hate to embarrass you,” Willa said to him. Her red hair spilled over one shoulder and was bound with green ribbons calculated to bring out the eyes Marian still couldn’t bring herself to meet. “Your horse hardly looks capable of matching mine.”
“I like a filly with spirit.”
Marian stifled a laugh at his lack of ingenuity, and Alanna raised an eyebrow.
“But do the mares like you?” Willa asked him.
The youth rode off after a few more unfortunate overtures, oblivious to the glare Willa shot at his back.
“I like a filly with spirit,” Marian mimicked.
Emmeline laughed and patted Willa on the arm with her free hand. “I do not envy the man that tames you,” she said.
Marian looked away from Willa. Alanna’s expression never slipped in these moments, but Willa lacked a courtier’s tact despite her birth. The awkward silence that fell was interrupted by another young man, who flashed a smile at Marian.
“Care to join me?” he asked.
“I fear my mistress needs me,” said Marian.
“Lady Emmeline, could you spare your companion?” he asked, bowing in the saddle. He had a perfectly oiled mustache that reminded Marian of a weasel.
“I fear she is essential,” said Emmeline. “I simply can’t get by without her.”
“Surely your minstrel can see to your needs,” he said.
“She said no, Joss.” Willa jogged her horse between theirs, giving the man a playful shove. “I realize that might be a first for you, but I’m sure you’ll find some other girl to pester before too long.”
“Like you, Lady Maunnesfeld?”
“I think not. Now go before my mare bites you.”
Joss galloped away, showing off his horse’s speed, and left the four of them alone again.
“Nothing ruins a hunt like feeling like the quarry,” said Willa. “Don’t they have other things to chase?”
Alanna laughed, and Marian saw the flush of happiness the sound brought to Willa’s cheeks. Something in her chest twisted painfully. I am not jealous. “Let’s run for a bit,” she suggested, eager to clear her head.
“Are you sure you can keep up?” Willa had not boasted without cause. Her father bred some of the fastest horses in all of Nottinghamshire, sought after by the king’s messengers and not entirely suited for the hunt, but that didn’t stop Willa from taking out her favorite mare whenever she pleased. White as spilled milk, the mare floated over the fields, ears cocked back for the sound of her rider’s voice. Emmeline’s horse, a fine-boned black mare with a white snip on her nose and a tendency to kick everyone but Emmeline and the stable boy, rolled her eyes.
Marian preferred her placid mare. She lacked the fine breeding of the other two, but she nuzzled Marian whenever she entered the stables, and her soft brown eyes and gentle demeanor never wavered. Even on her friskiest days, like today, the mare rarely did more than toss her head.
“Worry about your own horse,” said Alanna, and spurred her mount into a canter. Willa followed in a spray of mud, and Emmeline joined them with an unladylike whoop. Marian’s horse did her best to keep up, but soon fell behind, just as Willa had prophesied.
Marian slowed her horse to a walk as Sherwood loomed before them and let her hand run over the bark of passing trees as she allowed her mare to pick a trail from the hundreds that crisscrossed the forest floor. She thought she saw a small herd of deer take flight in the distance, alarmed by the hounds, perhaps, or merely aware of the presence of more humans in the forest than was usual.
“Let’s he
ad for the clearing by the river,” Emmeline said when Marian caught up with them. “Let the birds stretch their wings.”
The warmth of the day sent sweat trickling down Marian’s neck. She didn’t mind. Sweat was better than rain, and there were few enough flawless days during the English spring. Birdsong rose and fell around them. The hawks shifted their heads beneath their hoods, sensing prey, and Alanna broke into a sweet song about a dove that lilted through the air. Marian hummed along, content, until her horse sidestepped without warning.
She didn’t have time to shout. The source of her mare’s discomfort roared to life, and she had just enough time to register the hornets’ nest dangling from a recently split tree trunk before the cloud of angry insects engulfed her. She dropped the reins and clutched at her saddle with one hand and threw her other arm over her face to shield it as her mare took off at a gallop.
Branches tore at her as her horse surged through the woods, maddened into previously inconceivable speed by the stinging insects. Marian felt welts rising on her arms, neck, and face, and did her best to stay on despite the pain. She managed for what felt like miles until the sharp crack of a low hanging branch collided with her skull and knocked her from the saddle and from consciousness.
Chapter Eleven
Robyn edged down the game trail, hunger warring with caution as she teased back a tangle of ferns to reveal a cluster of mushrooms growing along the length of a decomposing oak. She scooped them into her game bag with a vivid fantasy of another roasted duck, sprinkled with some of the wild onions she’d found earlier that day.
Crouching, she parted another bank of ferns and froze. A woman lay in a heap of crushed undergrowth, her arm thrown out to one side and her riding skirts tangled around her. Every inch of her was covered in angry welts, and Robyn recognized the work of Sherwood’s busiest residents in the stings swelling the fair skin. Robyn whistled their warning call as she knelt beside the crumpled shape. John appeared a few moments later, quarterstaff gripped firmly in his hands, and frowned at the body.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” The swelling made it impossible to determine so much as the shape of her nose. Her hair had come undone from its bound ribbons and snarled about her face, and her arms were scratched and bruised.
“Look at her clothes,” John said.
Robyn could tell that beneath the dirt the clothes were finely made. This woman, whoever she was, wasn’t a commoner.
“We can’t just leave her here,” she said, reaching out to touch the woman’s shoulder. It was still warm, and her breast rose and fell with even breaths.
John knelt to examine the woman’s injuries. “She’s alive,” he said. “Just insensible. But how do you think she’s going to react when she wakes up and sees us?”
“Better us than a wolf.”
“People will be out looking for her. We can’t risk it.” John stood and motioned for Robyn to do the same. “We can carry her to a path if it makes you feel better. She’ll be easier to find at least.”
Robyn might have agreed had the woman’s eyes not fluttered open at that moment. “She’s awake,” Robyn said.
“Then we need to go. Now.” John stepped back, but Robyn didn’t follow.
“Can you hear me?” she asked the stranger.
“Yes.” The words slurred out of her mouth past swollen lips.
“Do you know where you are?”
The woman—girl, really—shook her head, then winced and touched her face gingerly.
“We need to get her to the river. Mud will help the stings. Can you walk?”
The girl nodded, winced again, and tried to stand. Her riding skirt tangled around her legs and she tripped, landing hard on her knees.
“Here.” Robyn lifted the girl and wrapped one of her arms around her waist. John moved to her other side, and despite his frown, Robyn noted that the hand he placed on the girl’s elbow was gentle.
Each step seemed to jar the girl in and out of consciousness. Robyn was tempted to ask John to just pick her up and carry her, but there was a grim determination to the way their new companion set one foot in front of the other that stopped her. Upper class or not, the girl had grit. She also weighed nearly as much as Robyn, and they both let out a sigh of relief when the river came into view.
“Here,” Robyn said when they arrived, pulling up a handful of mud. “This will help.” She daubed it on the girl’s face, careful not to put too much pressure on the swollen flesh.
“The river will help, more,” John suggested. “The cold water will bring down some of the swelling.”
“He’s right,” Robyn said. “Did they sting you anywhere else?”
The look the girl gave her might have been sardonic. It was hard to tell, with one eye swollen half shut and her cheeks puffy and slathered with gray mud.
“I’ll help you with your boots,” she offered, and when the girl didn’t protest she unlaced the leather boots and pulled them off. The leather had protected her calves and feet. Robyn had time to observe the rounded muscle of one leg before the girl pulled her legs to her chest.
“She doesn’t want to undress in front of us,” Robyn said as she recognized the sudden fear in the other woman’s posture.
“I wouldn’t either,” said John. “But, little dove, you’re not much to look at, at the moment, and neither of us are inclined to take advantage of a woman. If we were, we wouldn’t have bothered carrying you this far, would we?”
The girl’s eyes narrowed as much as the swelling allowed. “I’m not your dove,” she managed to say.
“Just wear your shift. Here.” Robyn knelt behind her and undid the belt at her waist and coiled it in her hand. The cord was soft. Not silk, but not the rough wool or flax Robyn was used to. The stranger let Robyn pull the tunic over her head. More welts covered the girl’s back. The dress, a soft blue thing made of lightly spun wool, clung to a few bloodied scratches, but all in all the worst of the damage had been done by the hornets.
“Thank you.” The girl rose awkwardly to her feet and limped toward the river with strides that quickened the closer she got, until she was nearly running. The minute the cool water washed over her she let out a long groan.
“What are we going to do with her?” John asked below the burble of the river.
“Make sure she doesn’t pass out again, get some of the swelling down, and take her to the border of the forest. Someone will find her.”
“They might be looking now,” said John. They both glanced over their shoulders, straining for the sounds of human traffic.
“We helped her, and she doesn’t know who we are.” Robyn spoke the words with more confidence than she felt. John’s anxiety wormed its way under her skin, and she couldn’t help jumping every time a branch cracked.
The girl stayed in the water for a long time. Robyn was just beginning to wonder if she’d passed out again when she emerged, shift clinging to her body, to sink once more onto the bank. Robyn found her eyes wandering over the girl’s curves and forced herself to look down. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“Better.”
“Put mud on the other stings.”
The girl scooped up a handful of slippery mud and rubbed it over her arms, chest, and neck. The dark mud glistened against the light gray of her shift. Something about her seemed familiar. Robyn studied her, trying to see past the swelling and the mud to whoever lay beneath.
The girl wasn’t a peasant, that much was clear, but she wasn’t acting like a silly highborn lady afraid of dirt on the hem of her dress, either. Still, only the gentry or merchants with money or social standing rode through Sherwood. People like Robyn walked. Better not to know her name, she decided, picking up a smooth stone and tossing it into the river. If she was some-one Robyn knew from before, Robyn’s reaction might give her away.
She jumped when she realized the other woman was studying her with the same intensity.
“I know you, I think,” the girl said, con
firming Robyn’s worst fears. “But I can’t place it. Are you from Nottingham?”
She doesn’t know you’re a woman, Robyn reminded herself. Her eyes drifted again to the soft swell of breast the shift revealed. “Not recently,” she answered. “And you?”
“Not recently?” she asked, ignoring Robyn’s question. “But you are from there?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
“Only when I ride into a hornet’s nest.” The girl pressed her hands to her face, prodding at the swelling. “Ouch. I feel . . . I don’t feel right.”
“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”
The girl explored her lips, which were swollen to three times their normal size, and Robyn’s mouth tingled in sympathetic pain.
“I must look like a fright.”
“You certainly gave us one.” Robyn found herself grinning. The whole situation, though fraught with the possibility of discovery, was ludicrous. Robyn Fletcher didn’t sit by the banks of the river exchanging pleasantries with the gentry. Robyn Hood, on the other hand, apparently did.
“My horse?”
“I didn’t see one.”
“I should thank you. I will, but my head . . .” she touched it again. Robyn could barely make out the slits of her eyes, but something in the sudden slowness of the girl’s speech warned her. She had just enough time to catch her as she slumped back into unconsciousness.
“Seven hells,” John swore, looming over Robyn as she cradled the girl in her arms. “Now what do we do with her?”
Chapter Twelve
Marian woke to the sound of crackling firewood, the smell of roasting meat, and an ache that covered her from head to toe. She lay on what had to be the ground, judging by the lumps jutting into her back and hip, and a coarse wool cloak covered her while another bundle of cloth pillowed her head. Something with multiple legs crawled across her arm.
