The whole company gathered to see them off. A good number of the Locksley stewards and tenants had been outlaws with Robin, back in the time of King Richard. They still kept watch over each other, as if they could not get out of the habit. The only ones missing were Brother Tuck, who had died when Eleanor was a baby, and Little John, who did not like to come out of Sherwood’s shadow for anything. Mary had grown up in that circle of safety and protection and trust—she was only starting to realize what that meant, to have a whole troop at one’s back. One could stand up to an awful lot of trouble.
That she would have to leave the company, perhaps soon, was a thing she hadn’t much considered.
“The green suits you, Mary,” Robin said, coming up from the back of the camp.
“Will you not come and watch?” she asked.
“I fear I would make you nervous if I did.”
She thought a moment. “It might, yes. I’m sorry.”
He came up and straightened a corner of her veil. “Never mind. I’ve seen you shoot plenty of times and will do again.”
When John appeared, pulling a quiver over his shoulder, he was also dressed in Lincoln green, a belted tunic with brown leggings. A matched set, like they planned it this way. Mary slipped her own quiver over her shoulder, adjusting her veil around the strap. Will Scarlet, who served as the Locksley household’s steward, had looked over their arrows personally the night before and reassured her that she knew what she was about and had nothing to prove. She picked up her bow, as yet unstrung, from the nearby rack.
“Well, look at you both,” Marian said, touching her fingers to her chin. “You have your arm guards? All your arrows counted? Extra bowstrings, you should have extra strings—”
“Mother, we’ve checked everything three times over, we’re fine,” John said.
“My lady, they will do very well,” Robin said, taking Marian’s hand.
Now she looked like she was about to cry. “I am so very proud of you both.”
Mary kissed her mother on the cheek and offered a smile. “It will all be over soon one way or another.”
“Be easy, Mary, just this once,” Marian said.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Ready?” John asked her. She nodded and they set off, with the whole of the Locksley household looking after them. The weight of the regard was heavy. John, her little brother who was taller than she was now and had somehow started the barest shadow of a beard growing and seemed so terribly sure of himself, said, “She’s right, there’s nothing to worry about. We’re telling a story, that’s all.”
“The story of Robin Hood? Are we supposed to be play-acting, then?”
“Yes, in a sense.”
Eleanor met them on the path into town, standing expectantly, hands clasped before her. She had a spindle and roving tucked in her belt, her veil was neat, she didn’t look at all out of place except that she wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be back at camp, with Beatrice and their mother.
Mary sighed. “We talked about this. You shouldn’t come. It’ll be loud and crowded and—”
Her sister tipped up her chin and marched ahead.
“I’m not going to argue with her,” John said, shrugging, and followed her.
And how was it that Eleanor managed to get her way so often when she didn’t even speak? This was going to be a long day, Mary feared.
The royal household had put together as fine an archery pitch as Mary could imagine. A dozen butts spread out along the distant end of the field, newly painted, the target colors bright. The stands were filled with the same rich and varied collection of lords and ladies as at the coronation, pages and attendants, banners fluttering over shaded viewing stands. All so pretty and lively. Were they supposed to bring attendants? Tables and chairs, silver platters full of food and drink?
No, never mind, they were here to shoot.
“There,” John said, looking over the gathering with a calculating eye. “There is the king, and I wager that’s his archery master.” A collection of men with bows and quivers had gathered on the ground near the middle of the viewing stand, where the largest of the banners flew, and the richest lords and ladies sat. In the middle of them all, a boy sat formally in an ornately carved chair. The king.
The archery master, an older man wearing a baldric of royal red and gold, moved among them, taking names and looking at bows.
“They’re all men,” Mary said. “I know I’m not the only woman in England who shoots. I thought . . . well.” She didn’t know what she thought.
“It may only be that they’re not here today,” John said.
He was sweet for trying to make her feel better.
If Mary hoped they could slip in unnoticed, and that there would be a whole crowd of archers to lose herself among, she hoped in vain. Mary and her siblings appeared, and the crowd turned to watch. Maybe the green wasn’t such a good idea after all . . .
“Trained bear,” she muttered.
“Don’t forget to smile,” John said, touching his cap.
Eleanor hesitated, bumping into Mary and clutching her skirt. Mary wanted to hiss that she’d warned her it would be like this, but she didn’t.
“Can you find a quiet place to sit?” Mary asked. Preferably someplace no one would try to talk to her . . . Eleanor bit her lip and nodded. Gave Mary a quick kiss on the cheek for luck, which was heartening, and then she ran off to a spot on the grass near the end of the viewing stand, where some other young girls sat with sewing and spinning, that still had a good view of the field.
A dozen men had come to shoot in the king’s contest. They looked over when the Locksley siblings approached, their gazes narrowed and appraising, their lips frowning or smirking. We must look like such children to them, Mary thought.
Her bow felt like an old friend, holding her hand.
“Lord John! Lady Mary! Welcome!” the king called.
John bowed deeply. “Your Grace, thank you for the opportunity to display our meager talents for you.”
The chair, the ermine, the gold, the fluttering banners, all of it would make one forget this was an eager boy grinning back at them. We’re telling a story, John had said. And the king wanted a story. Well, then.
She smiled, just like John asked, and kept her gaze down as she strung her bow and adjusted her arm guard. Let them stare; she didn’t need to stare back.
The king came out to address the archers and the crowd. He looked back at his councilors, and the same dark-robed bishop who was always with him nodded encouragingly. There was an odd sense that this was a child playing at being king.
But then his young voice, right on the edge of cracking, announced with determination, “For the winner, we have a gold ring from our own treasury!” He held up the ring, a gold band with a dark stone. There was cheering. Mary didn’t think of the ring, only of getting through this with her dignity intact.
“Archers, take your marks!”
Mary leaned close to John as they chose targets next to one another. “Promise me you will shoot your best and not throw the match because you think it’s funny to have people stare at me.”
“Mary, I promise you with all my honor that I always shoot my best against you. You really are that good. You’re as good as Father.”