Maggie blinked. “Robin?”
“It’s me.” Robin smiled softly. “It’s me. It’s over. Are you in one piece?”
She swallowed heavily and nodded. “They—they snuck up on us.” Her wide eyes grew bright with unshed tears.
“Tell me later. I’ll listen to you word for word when you’re safe.”
“He’s dead!”
Robin’s head whipped around to the huddle on the floor. The man wasn’t moving even as she herded Maggie behind her and up the stairs to where Jemma presumably waited.
“You killed him!”
Her fingers flexed. One of the men moved enough to let her see the prone body on the floor, her knife stuck grotesquely in his gut. Nowhere near his heart or lungs, but the odd angle of his neck left no doubt about how he’d truly died. The blade was merely an insult to injury.
“She killed the Sheriff’s kin!”
“He’ll see you hanged for this, bitch.” The one closest to her rose to his full height, intent on looming over her. “He’ll hang you.”
There had been no witnesses to her murder of Gisborne. None, save for those who had been hiding in the brush, had seen that or the burning of Lockesly manor. Here, on the other hand, at least three had seen her tussle with the Sheriff’s kin, her as the victor while he lay dead on the floor.
If she thought she’d been an outlaw before, this made it as true a fact as the sun rising each day in the east.
“He’ll hang me,” she agreed, pulling her hood up once more. “But he’s got to catch me first.” She turned sharply on her heel and darted up the stairs. She could tell the moment they gave chase. Her only thought was to stay ahead of them.
What had once been the servant’s stairs were rickety, and they looked more likely to collapse in a strong breeze than support her weight. She never hesitated, sprinting through the kitchen to burst out the door into the dirty alley.
Jemma materialized from the afternoon shadows with a hissed, “Robin!”
“Get the girls somewhere safe,” she demanded as she shrugged on her quiver and strung her bow. “Sherwood. Two days. Dawn. I’ll meet you there.” She eyed a haphazard pile of barrels and crates. “Stay hidden. Stay quiet.” Looping her bow over her shoulder, she clambered up the teetering pile until she could reach the roof of the next building.
“Robin—”
“Stay quiet.” She set her feet on the thatch, nocked an arrow, and breathed, eyes on the door she’d come out of.
“Search the alley. All of it!”
Look up here. She loosed the arrow. It landed solidly in the wall next to someone’s head. Every eye snapped to her. She tipped an imaginary cap and took off running, footsteps light as though she were moving from tree to tree with Jemma after her.
If she treated it like a game, her heart didn’t feel quite so much like it was trying to pound its way out of her chest.
“There. Up there!”
Robin checked only once to make sure they all followed her. The next time she looked back, it was to see Jemma peel away from the shadows and walk calmly in the opposite direction. Then, and only then, did Robin work at losing her pursuers.
Robin was both secretly pleased and mildly concerned it took the tinker so long to notice her. She’d been lurking in the shadows at the back of the stall for nearly half an hour before Lia’s shoulders hunched.
“Rumor has it,” she said, taking the half step back that allowed her to have conversation with Robin while still presenting a face to the market crowd, “someone killed the Sheriff’s favorite cousin in cold blood in the taproom at The Gilded Crown.”
Grunting, Robin pulled her hood further down over her forehead.
“Rumor also has it the Sheriff is offering two hundred pounds for the capture of that someone,” Lia continued.
“Two hundred pounds? Eh.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You shouldn’t believe every rumor you hear.”
“I do when there’s truth to it.”
“Who says there is?”
Lia snorted. “Your shadow came by earlier. Wanted to know if I’d seen you.”
“And from that alone you assume I’ve murdered someone?” Robin chuckled darkly. “There’s more than one side to every story.” She fell silent and withdrew a little further, pressing back against the wall of the building behind her as a woman approached the stall. A servant, from the look of her clothes, but in a house that clearly had money.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” Lia said by way of greeting.
The woman sniffed, careful to refrain from touching any part of the stall. “You do mend work, don’t you?”
“Best patches in Nottingham.” There was no mistaking the pride in Lia’s voice.
“A girl brought you some pots last week. Do you have them?”
“Aye. Told Cade they’d be ready by now.” She leaned a little to the side, trying to see around the woman. “Where is that sprig of a girl?”
“Cade has been relieved of her kitchen duties, and was told to seek a position elsewhere.” Robin’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline as the woman sniffed disdainfully. “That’s what happens when one begs honest work of a gypsy.”
Every muscle in Lia’s back snapped taut. “I do not work for free, madam.”
The woman dropped a small pile of coin on the counter.
“That’s not even half the price I agreed upon with Cade.”
She had to give Lia credit—Robin wasn’t certain she’d have been as calm as the tinker, even if it was noticeably forced.
“And I am not Cade.” The woman jerked her chin toward the coins. “I’ve paid you more than you deserve. I’ll take my pots now, or I’ll have a chat with the tax collector. Such good business deserves a higher tax, doesn’t it?”
Robin was half-tempted to put an arrow in the woman—someplace squishy and non-lethal—simply to shut her up.
Lia thumped the small stack of pots onto the counter with more force than necessary, and then gritted out through clenched teeth, “Good day.” She swiped the coins and turned her back on the woman, done with the matter at hand.
“I can shoot her for you.” Robin craned her neck and found she could still track the woman—struggling with her pots—easily through the thinning crowd.
“Haven’t you murdered enough people this week?”
“Shoot, not kill,” she said, forcing her tone to stay light. Lia was most likely trying to get a rise out of her. “There is a difference. She isn’t worth the arrow, anyway,” she added.
“Two sides to every story,” Lia murmured, holding a coin on edge between her thumb and forefinger. “Chelford Street. Second floor, above the seamstress. Wait until it’s full dark.” She flipped the coin to Robin before turning her eyes on the crowd once more. “I’ll leave the window open for you.”
Robin flicked the coin back in the direction it had come, smirking with satisfaction when it ricocheted off Lia’s ear. With a chuckle, she faded back into the deeper shadows, and snuck away down the alley to find a doorway to wait for the cover of darkness.
***
It wasn’t going to be running from rooftop to rooftop through Nottingham that killed her, nor was it going to be the Sheriff’s noose. No, what was going to break her neck was the fall from Lia’s window. She clutched the thatch with all the white-knuckled strength in her fingers, feeling with her left boot for where the window ledge—skinny as it was—started.
Thank God, the street was empty.
She inched along, still feeling for the ledge. Much to her relief, she finally found it, forcing her locked muscles to move again. Her fingers didn’t want to unclench, and her foot slipped. She threw herself toward the building as she fell, and her heel, followed by the rest of her leg, slid inside.
Robin came to an abrupt, awkward stop, half her rear balanced on the windowsill, her bowstring threatening to choke her, and her hands beginning to ache from her grip on anything stationary she could find to hold.
Once she’d ensured s
he hadn’t, in fact, fallen to her death on the street below, she clambered the rest of the way through the open window and adjusted her bow over her shoulder once more.
“Are you a festival performer or an outlaw?” Lia asked from not even a yard away, open-mouthed with shock.
She flexed her fingers and said, “Who says one has to choose?”
Lia barked out a laugh.
“Very glad you find me amusing,” she muttered, sliding her bow and quiver off. She unstrung her bow, and then wrapped the string loosely around her wrist.
“Best laugh I’ve had in a while.” Lia motioned her over to a small, wooden table and chairs.
Robin took a seat and a look around. One corner was sectioned off with hanging blankets—where Lia slept, no doubt—and there was a cabinet along another wall. Her tinker’s tools resided in another corner, nearer the window, and Robin imagined she’d learned to do quite a bit of work by moonlight. There were only a few lit candles, and with no fireplace, the room was quite dim.
Lia leaned forward as Robin pushed her hood back, drawing the same coin from their earlier conversation at the market from behind her ear. She placed it on the table between them with a wry, “There are two sides to every story.”
Robin made herself comfortable and gave her the facts of it. How Maggie and Kitty had initially been grabbed, how Kitty had gotten away, and how Robin had rescued Maggie.
“The death was an accident,” she finished. “He charged me, I stepped aside, and he ran head-first into an immovable thing.” Her fingers twitched at the memory of the knife as it was wrested from her hand. “I was the easiest one to blame.”
“What’s done is done.” Lia pushed the coin toward Robin. “And you’ve got to learn to live with the outcome of it. Where are the girls now?”
“With Jemma.” She shrugged. “I don’t know where. Here in Nottingham, of course, but I don’t know where they’ve gone.
“You’ll see your shadow tomorrow. She’ll take you to the others.”
Robin straightened in her chair. “She is not my shadow. She is my dearest friend, a woman of her own, and I don’t care what you have to say about me, but you will respect her as herself.” She didn’t remember standing up, though she did manage to keep her voice down. “And all the girls, for that matter. They’ve brains in their heads and can make their own decisions about who they are and where they will go. So far, they’ve decided to stick together and stay with us, but they aren’t forced.”
Lia leaned back. “And so say the shepherdess of her flock.” She motioned for Robin to sit once more, waiting until she’d settled hesitantly on the edge of her chair again. “Only certain news travels fast around these parts. Takes ages to know if there’s space in another market, but prices, goods for sale, and gossip make the rounds faster than anything. We had an influx of Lockesly sellers. People moving out of the village and not afraid to tell about it.”
Beneath the table, where Lia couldn’t see, Robin clenched her fingers together until her knuckles whitened.
“A knight had come to woo the Lady of Lockesly’s pretty daughter,” she continued. “But Rhiannon was in love with another—a common wood-carver. One morning, the wood-carver is dead. The following night, Lockesly manor is ablaze, and everyone is dead. Or so they said.” She spread her hands before her. “Lo and behold, Rhiannon of Lockesly is waltzing through the market. You and those girls are ghosts to many. I don’t think there’s a person alive in Lockesly who believes you survived that night.”
Robin unclenched her hands long enough to rub at her forehead. “A ghost, an outlaw, and a festival performer. Whatever shall I become next?”
“An alchemist. Turn lead into gold so I can better pay my taxes.” She snorted. “The Sheriff’s sitting pretty on a pile of coin to rival the King’s in London. Money gets very tight.” She pointed to the floor. “I’m behind on my rent. So is Mary. So are most of us. Slowly but surely, we’re being bled dry.”
Robin slouched in her chair, recalling the stack of coins from the afternoon on Lia’s stall counter. It had been more than enough to pay a portion of the rent and keep her fed. Her brow furrowed.
“None of ‘em mentioned how sharp you were,” Lia said. “I’ve something to show you.”
Robin followed her across the room to the corner hidden by blankets. Lia pulled one back and motioned with her head for Robin to look. It took a few moments for her eyesight to adjust to the darkness, but when it did, she could see the small form curled in another blanket on the pallet on the floor.
“Graham,” she said softly. “My son.” Lia leaned against the wall. “He was almost two when my husband died. He remembers his papa.”
Robin wrapped one arm around her midsection and brought the other to her mouth in what she hoped was a more contemplative gesture than one meant to keep her together. There was still no definitive answer if she was carrying a part of Marcus in her womb, and though she’d seen a number of children and babes throughout Nottingham, there was something about Graham’s peaceful sleep that made part of her raw with grief once more.
“My papa was wonderful, as I’m sure was his.” Robin waited until Lia turned her way to meet her eyes. “I’ve no doubt his mother loves him very much.”
Lia smiled gently. “She does, like I’ve no doubt your mother did, too.”
She was adult enough to know Sabine did, in a way. Everything she’d done was to, in her eyes, give her daughter a better future than what she’d ended up with. Robin hadn’t yet forgiven her for her choices and the consequences of them, but she knew such a thing might one day come with time.
“I would imagine she loved her daughter very much,” Robin said with a tiny smile of her own.
“Have you eaten?” Lia asked brusquely, letting the blanket drop once more and moving back to the table.
“Not since yesterday. I can—I’ll find something out there.”
“Nonsense. Sit.” Lia pointed to the chair, and then turned her back.
Robin followed her directions. Lia placed a hunk of bread and some dried pork and a chunk of cheese in front of her. A knife appeared in her hand, drawn from some inner sheath, and Robin, even in the dim light, could see her own reflection on the sharp blade.
“Not many know about my Graham,” she said, tone low. “I aim to keep it that way.”
“I give you my word,” Robin said. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“Not even you—Jemma?”
She shook her head once, sharply. “Not even Jemma. Not without your explicit permission.”
Lia smiled broadly and set the knife next to the cheese. “Eat up, then, as long as we have an agreement.”
“We do.” Robin tore off a piece of bread, shoved it in her watering mouth, and forced herself to chew slowly. She’d been hungry long enough that eating too much or too quickly would cause it to come right back up.
“Did anyone see you? With your—exercise at the window?”
She looked up blankly, a piece of pork halfway to her mouth. “When I almost fell to my death?”
“Yes.” Lia snorted. “That.”“Don’t think so.”
“Then stay here tonight. It’ll be safer for you than wandering from doorway to doorway.”
Robin swallowed thickly and rested both hands palm-down on the table. “Why are you doing this?”
“This? Kindness? Decency?” She shrugged. “Why did you buy pretty ribbons for girls whose pasts are nothing but ash?”
Robin buried her face in her hands the moment it fell into place in her mind.
Something scraped across the floor, and when Lia spoke again, it was close to Robin’s ear. “Because you are both different from them and the same. In this instance, let yourself be the same.”
Robin leaned into the arm around her, breathed in Lia’s scent of earth and metal, and did something she hadn’t done in a very long time—she cried. She sobbed for everything that had been and could never be again. Lia’s hold never faltered once.
***
Jemma’s hug the next morning in the forest clearing lifted her clean off her feet. Robin laughed, wrapping both arms and legs around the sturdier girl, trusting her to keep them both off the ground.
“My God,” Jemma said, face mashed into Robin’s neck. “I thought for sure you’d be maimed in a doorway somewhere.”
“Not pillaged?” she asked, breathless and rosy cheeked when Jemma finally put her down.
“That, too.” She looked Robin over for any scrapes, bruises, and other injuries she might have picked up between the fight in the taproom and that morning. “The girls are worried.”
Robin’s eyebrows rose. “Much is worried? Much doesn’t worry.”
“No, Much isn’t worried. Ginny asked for you, and Kitty thinks she should’ve done more to help Maggie.” Jemma paused. “Maggie’s been very, very quiet.”
“I owe Maggie an apology, at the very least.” Robin sighed contentedly, her fingers wrapped comfortably around Jemma’s as they walked through the morning dew to where Lia appeared to be intensely studying the foliage.
Robin shucked her bow and quiver. “You’ve found a new room somewhere?”
“The Broken Bough,” Jemma said. “Not too far from the forest, but far enough that it’s got multiple routes here.”
Both Lia and Robin nodded approvingly.
“Where’ve you been staying?”
Robin answered, “Around.”
At the same time, Lia said, “With me.”
Jemma blinked.
“The first night was a couple of alleyways, doorways, and some crates. Second night was with Lia.”
The tinker shrugged. “I had some extra space.”
“The Sheriff’s put out a two-hundred-pound reward for you, Lady Outlaw,” Jemma said as she plopped herself down in the grass to watch Robin go through the movements she’d been taught a few days earlier.
Robin grunted. “I’d heard that.”
“Lady Outlaw,” Lia said thoughtfully, correcting the position of Robin’s elbow. “It’s catchy. I like it.”
“Can we not, please?” she whined.
“Don’t drop stance.” Lia kicked lightly at her ankles to adjust her feet. “Do you have something better in mind?”
Lady of Sherwood Page 7
