by Anna Burke
This was not Harcourt Manor.
Hornets. She remembered that much. Hornets, and the pounding of her horse’s hooves over the forest floor as the mare fled in terror. That pounding continued now in her skull, a dull, insistent ache that suggested she’d hit her head at some point.
“Are you hungry?”
Marian looked up into a pair of striking hazel eyes framed by a short fall of tousled dark hair. Firelight flickered across the boy’s skin, and she blinked as she tried to place him. Something about the bow of his lips looked familiar. Then she glanced away from his face and around the firelit clearing, her pulse quickening. None of the other members of the hunting party were in sight. “Where am I?”
“Sherwood Forest, m’lady.”
“M’lady?” Marian frowned as she repeated her title, trepidation adding to the ache in her skull, then regretted it as the motion sent ripples of pain through her swollen skin. She reached up to feel her face gingerly. The skin felt tight and hot to the touch, crusted beneath a layer of—mud?
“Well, you’re not a swineherd.”
Marian pushed herself into a sitting position, and the cloak fell off her bare shoulder. That wasn’t right either. She had a detailed memory of selecting the blue tunic to match Emmeline today. Now she was in her shift, alone with a strange youth in the middle of the forest, without horse or friend. “Where are my clothes?”
“Right there.” The boy pointed at the cloth she’d been using as a pillow. She recognized her tunic and riding skirt, then wrapped the cloak more tightly around her. “You don’t remember?” he said.
“Remember what?”
“We found you near the river. The mud is for the stings, m’lady.” The boy grinned each time he said “m’lady,” she noticed.
Mud. Right. That would explain why her skin crackled every time she moved, and while it didn’t feel like anything was broken, which was good, Emmeline would be worried sick about her. She pictured her friend pacing the rush-covered floor with her bad leg, perhaps barking orders at her huntsman to send out another search party.
“I’m in service to Lady Emmeline of Harcourt. She’ll be looking for me,” said Marian, another sentence hovering at the back of her throat. She bit down on the words before they could escape. A lady’s protection might go further than her father’s, out here where he hunted outlaws like vermin.
“I don’t doubt that,” said another voice.
Marian jerked her head around—another painful mistake—and scrambled away from the bull of a man crouching by the fire.
“He’s mostly harmless,” said the youth, correctly interpreting her alarm. “And we’ve already had this conversation, although it’s clear you don’t remember. If we wanted to hurt you, we wouldn’t have gone to the effort of bathing and feeding you. Speaking of food, there’s roasted goose and some mushrooms.”
Marian took a steadying breath. She was alive, relatively unharmed, give or take a pint of hornet venom and a massive headache, and whoever these men were, the boy was right—they hadn’t done anything to her. Yet. She could fare worse in Prince John’s court, she reminded herself, and the goose did smell delicious.
“Thank you.” She sat up a little straighter and decided to ignore the chill of the night air on her bare shoulders, not that she could feel much of it beneath the layer of mud and the hot press of the throbbing stings.
“Excellent. John? Ready to eat?”
“I was born ready to eat.”
The youth snatched the goose from the coals and blew on it to cool it down before slicing off a drumstick for Marian and placing it on a broad leaf along with a handful of mushrooms. Marian popped one of the mushrooms into her mouth, ignoring the way it scalded her tongue, and accepted the waterskin the youth handed to her.
“It’s good,” she said, meeting the hazel eyes again.
“You haven’t even tried the goose.”
Marian bit into the leg and let the grease run down her chin. What was a little grease when her face was already covered in mud and monstrously swollen? The meat sang on her tongue notwithstanding her headache, and she licked her lips, smiling her approval despite the odd way her cheek muscles moved underneath the swelling. “It’s good, too.”
“You hear that, John? Our cooking is good enough for the gentry.”
Marian looked closer at the boy, trying to figure out where she had seen him before. The memory shimmered in the flames just out of reach. A flash of hazel. Defiance. Eyes locking across a crowded Nottingham street.
“Speaking of the gentry,” said John, gesticulating with a wing, “we’d be much obliged if you didn’t mention that we found you.”
“You don’t want a reward?”
The two exchanged pointed glances at her words.
“Reward us with your silence, lady,” said the youth. “As well as the pleasure of your company.”
There. That look, wary beneath the sparkle of mischief. She cradled the drumstick in her hand, the meat momentarily forgotten. She’d seen that look before, and it hadn’t belonged to a youth. Those smooth cheeks had never felt the prick of a beard, and there were women at court who would kill for eyes that shape and color. Her heart pounded a little faster. Perhaps she wouldn’t have seen through the façade if she hadn’t spent so much time around Willa and her brother. The twins had switched wardrobes until their father beat them out of it, and the youth in front of Marian now looked like Willa had then, wearing clothes slightly too large for her as she questioned the place the world demanded she fill.
This youth was a girl.
“I won’t say anything,” Marian said, questions bubbling up as her rescuer smiled. She wanted to ask the stranger her name, and she wanted to ask what had driven her into the woods and what she was hiding from, for she was certainly hiding. The stolen meat and the dirt across her cheeks were proof of that. Instead, Marian took another bite of the goose and tried to wrap her throbbing head around her situation.
She was the daughter of the sheriff of Nottingham. Her father made his living hunting down men and women like her rescuers, and Marian knew exactly how far his gratitude would extend for their intervention on her behalf. He’d thank them as he hanged them. I won’t tell them who I really am, she decided. That would eliminate any foolish notions of asking for a reward or a pardon.
“We’ll bring you to the edge of the forest tomorrow,” the woman said, licking her fingers clean as she finished her share of the bird. Marian caught herself staring at her mouth again. It seemed impossible now that she’d mistaken the woman for a youth, and her curiosity mounted. Thunder rumbled to the south. She pictured the clouds gathering above the rolling hills of the forest, towering above Nottingham castle and flickering with summer lightning. She edged closer to the fire.
“Any news worth sharing?” the big man asked her. He, too, had finished his share of the goose, and his hands turned over a piece of wood. Shavings fell in delicate curls from his knife, and she wondered what he was carving. A spoon, or perhaps a bird.
“Have you heard about the king?”
“The bastard got himself captured,” said the big man. “That’s what comes of leaving good English soil.”
“Any idea what they plan to do with him?” asked the woman.
“All I know is that Prince John wishes they’d keep him indefinitely,” Marian said.
“I bet he does. Do you spend a lot of time in the castle?”
Marian ate the last of her mushrooms and touched her face again. The swelling seemed to be going down, and though she knew she must look frightful with her face covered in mud and her hair in tangles, the food and the fire and the sounds of the forest and the distant storm were oddly comforting. “Lady Emmeline doesn’t like attending court, but yes.”
“Such a tragedy,” said the woman. “The food and the music must be truly awful.”
“Do you know the difference between sex with a king and holding court with a king?” Marian repeated one of Emmeline’s favorite jokes. She wo
uld not have dared say it in polite company, but here it seemed fitting, and she wanted to match her rescuer’s teasing tone.
“I am pleased to say I do not,” said the woman.
“Sex is over quickly and at the very least you can close your eyes.”
The big man’s laughter surprised Marian, and she felt inordinately pleased with herself when his companion gave her a crooked smile. By all rights she should be terrified, but something about the outlaw reminded her of Alanna and Emmeline, and Marian trusted them implicitly. Or maybe the fall had just knocked all the sense out of her head. The latter was by far the likeliest explanation.
“So, you’re what, a lady’s handmaid?”
“Yes.” She didn’t bother correcting the assumption to include her title, or explaining that she was more companion than handmaid at this point. The luxury of anonymity, of no one looking at her sideways because she was the sheriff’s daughter, was refreshing.
“And what exactly do you do?”
“I see to her needs,” said Marian.
“I’ve always wondered what needs a lady has that the rest of us don’t,” said the woman. The man watched the exchange with a frown that twitched upward periodically as if he was trying to contain a smile.
“I mostly keep her company,” Marian admitted. “And I care for her leg. She had a bad riding accident when she was younger, and I oil it at night to relieve the ache.” She had a sudden vision of herself rubbing the smooth muscles of Emmeline’s thigh, and something about the way the woman studied her face brought the blood to her cheeks. The mud, at least, concealed her blush. “She loves hunting, though, so I ride out with her and her hawks, and I fetch her whatever she needs and help her dress.”
“What would you do if you had someone to help you dress?” the woman asked the man.
“Tell him to kiss my ass while he’s at it.”
“It’s a good position,” said Marian, annoyed at their ribbing.
“I’m not saying it’s not.” The outlaw sat with her hands clasped loosely around her knees, and she turned her eyes back to Marian. Marian shivered slightly as they passed over her. “It just seems like a waste of a good pair of hands.”
“I spin and sew,” said Marian. “I am not idle.”
“Let’s see your hand, then.”
The outlaw reached out and gently pried her fist from its grip on the cloak. Marian let her open her fingers, her chest suddenly tight as the woman’s sun-browned skin brushed hers. The contrast between her smooth palm and the woman’s callused one proved the woman’s point. Still, she felt a strange reluctance to pull her hand back into the safety of the cloak. The gentle rasp of the outlaw’s touch lulled her further into the warm circle of the fire, and she found she couldn’t take her eyes off the other woman’s face.
“You must be tired,” the man said, interrupting her trance. “And you’re still sick from the sting-poison. Get some rest. We’ll keep a watch, and no one will harm you.”
Marian lay down by the fire. The warmth of the flames eased the ache of the stings, and she closed her eyes. The outlaws didn’t speak for a long time. She had almost drifted off to sleep when the woman spoke, softly, as if she didn’t wish Marian to hear.
“I couldn’t just leave her, John.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t leave me behind.”
“You weren’t a lady’s maid.”
“You wouldn’t have helped me if I had been?”
“I might have tossed you over my shoulder and sold you back to your father.”
Marian opened her eyes a sliver in time to see the woman shake her head.
“She’ll be off our hands tomorrow.” The fire cast her face in shadow.
“Good.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve made yourself far too memorable already for someone who’s supposed to be dead. What if she recognizes you?”
“How would she recognize me?”
“The fair,” said the man.
“Well, I’ll keep my hood up. It isn’t like I’ll be anywhere near the nobility.”
“Do that. And stop flirting with her.”
Marian turned the words over as she drifted off, wondering how she was going to explain any of this to Emmeline, let alone her father. A night in the woods wasn’t the sort of thing her father would want to hear about. Anything could happen in the woods. Anything at all. Stop flirting with her, the man had said. A pair of hazel eyes drifted through her dreams, and the faint rumble of thunder vibrated through the earth beneath her as she slept.
Chapter Thirteen
Robyn watched the girl sleep the next morning while John removed what was left of the goose from the little pot they kept tucked in the coals and divided it into three portions.
The swelling on her face was almost gone. Her dark hair lay over her mouth, and her breath disturbed the heavy brown curls. Robyn found herself comparing the curve of the girl’s cheek to Gwyneth’s. Where Gwyneth was fair and slender, this girl was dark and lithe, the swell of her hip and her rounded shoulder hinting at strength as well as beauty. A girl like that wouldn’t break beneath the weight of a market lamb, nor would her breath come too quickly after a run through the fields. It isn’t Gwyneth’s fault, Robyn reminded herself, her heart aching as it always did when she thought of her sister-in-law’s frailty. She wished Gwyneth were here now. She would know how to make this girl feel comfortable.
“Wake her up,” said John as he tossed Robyn a hunk of breast meat. “The sooner we get her back to her people, the safer we’ll be. We’ve waited too long already.” The first light of the morning filtered over his face as he spoke, and Robyn saw the fear there beneath his stoic expression.
“All right,” she said, wolfing down the meat and kneeling next to the girl to shake her shoulder. The girl blinked, her long lashes weighted down with mud, and looked around with large brown eyes. “Time to wake up, m’lady.” Robyn offered the girl her hand. “You look better today. Your mistress might even recognize you.”
The girl let the cloak slide off as her gaze swept around the clearing, pausing on John, and then swinging back to Robyn.
“You do remember what happened, don’t you?” Robyn asked, worried for a moment that the girl had had another lapse in memory. She must have hit her head hard when she fell off her horse. “The river’s not far. Eat something, and then we’ll get the worst of the mud off and see you home safely.”
The girl accepted the goose and ate quickly. The grease shone like beeswax on her full lips as she took Robyn’s hand and rose to her feet. Standing unsupported, she was only a little shorter than Robyn. Tall for a woman, and once again Robyn’s eyes lingered on her too long. She’ll be gone soon, she told herself as she released her hand. The sooner the better. The feelings stirring in her chest were dangerous.
They made their way to the river in relative silence. Neither John nor Robyn wanted to make any more noise than was necessary, and the girl followed their lead. “Here,” Robyn said, pausing at a part of the river obscured by reeds.
The girl tied her shift in a knot about her knees and bent to wash, running the water through her hair and letting it sluice down her arms. John placed a hand on Robyn’s shoulder, forcing her to tear her eyes away from the sight. She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Let the lady wash in peace.”
“I’m not—” Robyn began, and then she paused. John held her eyes for longer than was strictly necessary. I wonder who he thinks about when he’s lonely. Men? Women? “I’m keeping guard.”
John said nothing, but Robyn kept her eyes averted for the rest of the girl’s ablutions.
“My clothes?” the girl asked when she finished.
Robyn handed her the bundle and tried not to stare. Without the mud and the grotesque swelling of the stings, the girl looked older. Not a girl, Robyn thought, grateful for her disguise. A youth might blush before a young woman like this, but a fletcher’s daughter had no such excuse—or
at least none that a priest would condone.
“Let’s go. We’ve a ways to walk before we get to the road,” said John, his knuckles white on the quarterstaff. Robyn adjusted her grip on her bow and fell into step beside the girl.
“I’m in your debt,” the woman said after a half hour of silence punctuated only by the sound of their breathing.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Robyn.
“You could have just left me there. Or worse.”
Robyn made the mistake of looking at her again. Welts from the stings still marred her cheeks, but she had the sort of face that gave a person pause. Her dark hair and darker eyes shifted beneath the dappled light of the trees, and Robyn thought that a great many people probably let their gazes wander on before snatching them back a few moments later, searching for her in vain. Her allure was delayed, but once noticed, impossible to ignore.
“What, do you think there’s no honor among thieves?” she asked.
The woman gave her a small smile, dimpling one cheek. “So you are a thief.”
“A thief of geese maybe, but you can hardly blame me for that. They’re not very fast.”
“And they are so very tasty.”
Robyn warmed to the wry tone in her voice as she held a branch out of the girl’s way. “Next time you fall off your horse, make sure you bring some preserves.”
“Gooseberry or black currant?”
“Best to bring both, just in case.”
“I’ll have a hard time explaining why I only ride with jam in my saddlebags from now on.”
“Think of something.” Robyn paused, watching the girl out of the corner of her eye. “What are you going to tell them anyway?”
“About the jam?”
“No,” Robyn began, but the girl waved her words away.
“I’ll tell them the truth. I fell off my horse near the river and hit my head. When I woke up, it was morning, and I followed the river as best I could until I found the road, and then I followed that. I was terrified the entire time, of course,” she added, batting her lashes in an uncanny impression of a delicate noblewoman. “Everyone knows there are outlaws in the forest.”
