PAPA WAS waiting for her on the steps, just as he’d said he would be. The number of people—men in fine cloaks, women with glittering jewels pinned in their hair—was unbelievable. Marian hardly saw any of them. She walked straight up to Papa and took him by the arm.
“I need to speak with you.”
“Marian! You look lovely!”
“Thank you. I need to speak with you at once.”
“Later,” Papa said. “King John awaits us.”
“It’s urgent, Papa.”
“We won’t keep the king waiting, Marian. Come along.”
Marian bit down on her cheek and did as she was told. Dizziness washed over her. She hardly noticed the fine tapestries and gold-dipped vases that lined the castle walls. Music filled the air, but Marian hardly heard that, either. Over and over in her head, she saw Robin’s face and the delight on it when she’d come bounding into the inn to tell Marian that her parents had agreed to their plan.
Marian stopped walking. “Papa, I really do need to speak with you.”
“Heaven and earth, child, can it not wait? King John is expecting us.”
“That’s just it,” Marian said. “I need to speak to you about King John.”
Papa’s dark eyebrows drew together. “What about?”
“Kitterly told me he intends to move us into the castle.”
At that the frown disappeared from Papa’s face. “Is that all?” He laughed. “I’d have rather she waited for me to tell you, but yes, it’s true. It’s an honor, is it not? That will secure you a fine match indeed.”
“But I don’t want to move into the castle,” Marian said, knowing she was whining and unable to stop it. “I don’t care about making a fine match. Robin has invited me to come stay in Loxley with her, and I wish to go.”
“Loxley?” Papa said. He looked at Marian in confusion.
“To her family’s farm. I can help with the fall harvest.”
Papa shook his head and began to walk again, leading Marian up the steps to where the herald waited, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t. It would undo all the work you’ve put in this summer.”
“But—”
“Sir Erik Banner and his daughter, Maid Marian,” Papa said, turning to the herald.
“Papa—”
“The answer is no, Marian.” He tucked Marian’s hand into his arm and the doors swung open.
“Sir Erik the Fortunate! His daughter, Marian!”
They entered the great hall, where the entire court was assembled: the women in their fine dresses, the men draped in gold chains, and at the center of it all sat King John, his head thrown back in laughter.
Papa walked forward, and Marian allowed herself to be pulled along beside him, though her mind was racing. She had thought she might have to do a little convincing but hadn’t expected Papa to give her an outright no. He had never been so casually dismissive of her before, and that he was doing so now stung.
But, Marian thought as they made their way toward the throne, maybe the Papa she had known in Abyglen was a different man than he was in Nottingham. There was so much to divert his attention here, and he hardly had time to spare her some pocket money—as though she needed another dress—before he was going this way or that. She couldn’t imagine it would be any better once they moved into the castle, where he would be just a stone’s throw away from the king and that much easier to fetch day or night. And in the castle she wouldn’t have Kitterly, who, though snappish and bossy, had treated Marian with such kindness, it made her chest tight to think of.
And Robin. Robin. Marian’s feet faltered, and she had to grip Papa’s arm to steady herself. Robin would be gone in only days, and… no. No, Marian wouldn’t have it. She would change Papa’s mind one way or another, or else she would just pack up her bow and arrow, the new lute Papa had given her, and whatever else she could carry, and she would go with Robin whether Papa allowed it or not.
“Your Majesty,” Papa said, coming to a halt in front of King John.
The king looked over at him, and his face split into a wide grin. “Sir Erik!”
“God save you, my lord,” Papa said, and when he bowed, Marian sank down into a curtsy beside him. Terrible though she was, Lady Charlotte had improved Marian’s curtsies by leaps and bounds. At the very least, she wasn’t in danger of toppling over and cracking her skull open.
“Who is this lovely lady you’ve brought to my feast?”
Marian’s head snapped up. She straightened.
Papa cleared his throat. “My daughter, Marian, my lord.”
“Marian.” The king looked her up and down, lingering far longer in places than he ought. Marian forced herself not to wrap her arms around herself. “Well met.”
“We’ve met before, your highness,” Marian said. She kept her voice even, though she dearly wished to blow the eaves off the castle. “In Abyglen.”
The king looked at her, tilting his head to one side like a curious child. As though Abyglen was something he’d heard of once and then forgotten.
“Abyglen, Your Majesty.”
“Of course, of course. Lovely village, Abyglen.”
Marian’s blood caught fire. She cast a long look at Papa, but he never looked away from King John. “It was, yes.”
At that Papa did look at Marian—sharply. He shook his head once, then jerked his gaze away.
“Your Majesty.” He bowed again, then stepped back, yanking Marian with him.
Marian was too stunned to protest, so she let herself be pulled away from the throne and through the throng of people. Once she and Papa were closeted away in an alcove, he spun her around to face him.
“How dare you,” he whispered furiously, his eyes darting around frantically. “How dare you question the king like that? Do you have any idea—?”
“Question him! He doesn’t even remember!”
“King John has many provinces and villages, Marian. He can’t be expected to remember all of them.”
“Not even the ones he watches burn?”
“Don’t speak so. Not to me, not to anyone.”
Marian yanked her arm out of Papa’s grasp. “I don’t even know you,” she spat out. “That was our home. Those were our friends.”
“Marian—”
She shook her head and took a step back, out of Papa’s reach. “Excuse me, Lord Father,” she said coldly. “I don’t feel well.”
“Marian…,” he said, but Marian was already out of the alcove, weaving her way through the herds of people who had come to celebrate their king.
THE MUGGY night air hit Marian like a brick wall. She tumbled out of the castle and into the courtyard, where the music and laughter were louder, almost frantic. The night blazed with a thousand torches and fires, brighter almost than daylight. Marian sagged against the nearest wall, covered her face with her hands, and tried to breathe.
What had come over Papa? He was changed here, so different than the person Marian had known him as in Abyglen. A tiny voice teased at the corners of Marian’s mind, wondering if perhaps this was the real man—this was Sir Erik—and the man Marian had known in Abyglen was someone else altogether.
But then Marian was different here as well. Never would she have spoken to Papa in such a way before. Never had so much anger and frustration simmered inside her. Words of disagreement rarely rose between them before, but now it seemed Marian’s tongue was ever pressed to the roof of her mouth, barely holding back a quarrel.
With a sigh, Marian pushed herself off the wall and brushed off her skirts. What foolishness to imagine anything would be the same now as it had been. There was a clear line in her life now: before the bandits and the fires and after them. Before Nottingham and now.
There was only here and now, and in this moment, there was only tonight.
Marian picked her way through the chaos and revelry, ignoring the celebration in favor of seeking out a headful of bright red hair. Robin. She wanted Robin.
She wandered through the musicians and dancers and down past the well, where she found Robin, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, clutching a jug in her lap. Robin leaped to her feet when she caught sight of Marian and dashed over to her, sloshing mead down her front. Marian laughed, reaching out to catch Robin’s hand.
“Hullo,” she said, heart thumping happily in her chest.
“Hullo yourself,” Robin answered. The firelight shone in her eyes, making her look so beautiful that Marian’s breath caught in her throat. “I didn’t expect you!”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Marian said, desperate to draw yet another line through her life. Nottingham on one side, Robin on the other.
“Then let’s not.” Robin handed the jug off to the nearest person, clasped her sticky hands around Marian’s, and pulled her in. Their bodies pressed together, warm through their clothes, and the back of Marian’s neck burned. Even so, she didn’t dare pull away.
For a long time, they stayed like that, arms wrapped around each other as the world spun and spun around them.
AS THE days passed, Marian spent more and more time in Robin’s company, helping her parents with their stall at the market. Robin’s laughter lapped at the edges of Marian’s frustration and anger, gradually teasing it away and leaving Marian’s heart light and happy, even when she was forced to abandon Robin for mornings with Lady Charlotte. There was no end of things she needed to be taught, it seemed, now that her father’s star had risen. She danced and sang and drew and was forced to answer countless questions. Lady Charlotte wanted to know everything about Papa and his new commission. Marian had little information, but that didn’t stop Lady Charlotte from picking at her like a scab.
In the early evenings, after her lessons were done, Marian would fly from the castle and down to the city wall to wait for Robin, and together they would explore every nook and cranny of Nottingham. They climbed trees and picked locks, met maids and traded coins for stories about secret passages and brave knights. Every night Marian fell into bed exhausted, and every day she woke with a grin stretched across her face, her heart leaping in her breast at the thought of another evening spent in Robin’s company.
Papa didn’t mind her evening explorations, as long as Marian made good on her lessons with Lady Charlotte. It was Lady Charlotte who looked at her in disdain every time Marian left her chambers, apparently unable to understand why anyone, least of all Marian, would wish to exchange her company for anyone else’s.
Marian could hardly imagine the look that would cross Lady Charlotte’s face if she knew how often Marian stood in the company of Gilbert, the old beggar, as she waited for Robin. He rarely moved from the wall, preferring instead to lean against it with his old tin cup, his cape draped over his shoulders. He always had a smile for Marian, nodding at her as she came to wait on Robin. One day as she stood with him, her mind kept turning to the way Lady Charlotte had sneered at him, calling him a miserable drunk. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, taking in the tidy stitching on his cloak and the gray whiskers sprinkled across his face.
“Gilbert,” she said, turning toward him. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You can ask me anything you like.”
“I’m afraid it might be insulting.”
Gilbert laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound, but Marian liked it. “I’ve been insulted every way imaginable, maiden, and by people much more deliberate about it than you could possibly be.”
“Lady Charlotte, the woman—”
Gilbert laughed again. “Yes, I remember her.”
“She said, well…. You remember what she said.”
He laughed again. “That I was a drunk.”
“But you seem like a nice man. You don’t seem like… what she said.”
Gilbert didn’t answer for several moments. He took a sip from his jug, then another. He was probably offended, and rightly so. It wasn’t any of Marian’s business why he sat here by the gates day after day. She wasn’t even sure why she was asking. Heaven knew she had enough on her mind without adding Gilbert’s goings-on to her thoughts. She was about to apologize and hurry away to seek out Robin when Gilbert shifted and cleared his throat.
“I’ve been on this earth a fair few years now. And the older I get, seems like the less I know, but I do know this. Most people aren’t what you think they are. But some people are exactly what you think they are. In this case, you’re both right. I am a nice man. But I’m also a drunk. There’s no law saying you can’t be a nice drunk.”
Marian looked over at him. “Why are you a drunk?”
“I’m not sure that’s the right question. But I’m a drunk because it helps with the pain, maiden.” He shrugged off his tattered cloak and pointed at the withered, wasted stump hanging uselessly under his left shoulder. Marian gasped and recoiled; her hand flew to her mouth.
Shame clouded Gilbert’s weathered face. He grappled with his cloak, trying to pull it back over his shoulder without getting up. “Sorry, maiden. I shouldn’t have shocked you so.”
“No,” Marian said quickly, hastening forward to help him with his cloak. “I was just startled.” She caught the edge of his cloak and tugged it over his shoulder, trying not to shudder at the idea of what was beneath it. “What happened?”
“Lost it in service to King Richard, God keep him.”
“You were a soldier?”
“Since I was old enough to swing a blade.”
Marian stared at him, unable to think of anything to say. She was sorry she asked, sorry she now knew such a thing about Gilbert when he wouldn’t even call her by her first name.
“I’m Marian.”
Gilbert peered up at her. As they’d spoken, the sun had slid across the sky and was now hanging right above them, so Gilbert was forced to shield his eyes with his good arm. “What’s that?”
“My name is Marian. You don’t have to call me maiden. I’m not… I’m not anyone, Gilbert. You can call me Marian.”
Gilbert laughed. “You’re Sir Erik’s daughter, maiden, and that makes you someone to me.”
She studied Gilbert’s face—the sunken pallor of his eyes, the thin, graying hair swept off his forehead. Then she curtsied and turned to go.
Gilbert’s voice caught her before she could walk away.
“But you mustn’t pity me, maiden. You mustn’t ever pity old Gilbert. Because there’s them that can’t even get themselves to the city gates.”
Marian didn’t know what else to say. She nodded at Gilbert, and he nodded at her. Then he picked up his tin cup and turned to the family passing through the gates.