i
A MESSENGER ARRIVED TO say that the lord and lady of the manor would return that afternoon. Mary had a moment of panic. Her parents had been gone for months, nothing was ready, they would arrive to find the manor in a state of disaster and it would be her fault—But no, everything was fine. She had only to tell the kitchen that there’d be more to feed at supper, with them and all their retinue. Mother and Father had been off in Surrey to see the king—a deeply serious trip wrapped up in politics. Father had joked that he might really lose his head this time, laughing and winking like he always did no matter how serious things got. Mother hadn’t laughed, not that time.
“Messenger’s arrived,” Mary said to the cook, who looked up from dough she was kneading. “The lord and lady will be home for supper.”
Joan’s face lit. “Oh, wonderful news!” Then her expression fell. “That’s a dozen more for supper, at least, and anyone who’s come back with them.”
“We’ve got the extra geese; they’re ready for butchering, I think,” Mary said. “Or would the pig be better? It’s early yet.” They would need the pig smoked and made into sausages for winter, but perhaps it could be spared for this.
“There’s good reasons for either of them,” Joan said cautiously, which also meant, You are the lady of the manor until your mother returns, it’s your decision.
Mary winced. She thought she was getting better at this but there was always something new to consider. “Mother would say to butcher the geese, wouldn’t she?”
Joan smiled. “Yes, my lady.”
“Then we’ll do that.”
“Very good.”
Mary went on to the rest of the chores. Chambers needed airing, fresh rushes put down, more wood for the hearth brought in. The hall would be crowded tonight. The news spread fast; the whole place grew lively. Next was to see if her siblings were presentable. She found Eleanor sitting on the low paddock wall outside the main yard. She was looking out at the road, waiting.
“It’ll be a few hours before they get here,” Mary said. “You don’t have to wait here all that time.” The girl set her jaw, pursed her lips: she would wait. Her back was straight, her hands clasped. The hem of her kirtle was muddy, but that was all right; the rest of her was clean enough. Her light brown hair was a bit of a mess. “Can I braid your hair again?”
Eleanor hesitated, then nodded. Mary set to work untying her hair, quickly combing it out with her fingers, and braiding it up again, all neat and tidy.
“How’s that?” Eleanor nodded once and turned her gaze back to the road, which would stay empty for hours yet, but that hardly mattered.
Mary had no idea where John was and decided he was old enough to take care of himself. And she . . . she suddenly wanted to be somewhere else.
“If you see John, don’t tell him I’ve gone out,” Mary told her sister, who rolled her eyes and let out an offended sigh. Of course she wouldn’t tell John anything. Mary had only to avoid him.
Mary raced to the chambers she and Eleanor shared by the back way, where no one was likely to see her, and changed out of her kirtle and veil and into her tunic and leggings and sturdy leather shoes, shoved her hair under her cap and sneaked back out again. Fortunately, everyone was so busy they didn’t notice. At the back of the yard, she took a moment to make sure John wasn’t in sight. Then she ran, across the road and the meadow beyond, and then to the edge of Sherwood Forest.
When she dressed in a gown and wore her hair braided up and veiled as she ought, she looked like a woman grown. She had already had one offer of marriage, which her parents instantly refused—she was too young, they said, and the offer too grasping. Mary wasn’t supposed to know about it, and she did not know what to think. Flattered or horrified, or both at once. But in her leggings and old tunic and cap, she looked younger than she was, a girl still allowed to run loose in the woods, to avoid thinking of things like whether she ought to be flattered or horrified by sudden marriage offers.
Soon, every bit of the manor was out of sight, and she was alone. Cool shadows closed in, and her chest filled with the scent of living wood and rotting leaves, the opposite of hearth and stable. The peace of it went to her bones. She walked, putting her hand on trunks, brushing fingertips against rough bark, stepping as lightly as she could on silk-soft, mossy earth.
She came to the tree she sought, an ancient oak with a bloated trunk and branches that twisted and reached, shading everything around it until nothing else grew. A good oak for climbing. With a jump, she grabbed the lowest branch, swung up, then climbed, shimmying up the trunk to the next branch, lifting herself to the one after, until she came to the well-known lookout. The forest thinned enough here that from this position she could see far down the road that led to the manor. This was one of the trees where outlaws once stood watch and laid ambushes. Once, this forest had been so haunted that even well-armed men would not travel there. That had been a long time ago. No more outlaws haunted Sherwood. So everyone said.
“What do you see? My eyes aren’t so good these days.”
Mary flinched but kept her footing on the solid bough and her hold on the branch above her. The question came from a hooded figure standing in the branches of the next tree over. Staff tucked under one arm, he leaned up against the trunk and kept himself hidden in shadow.
The ghost of the forest had spoken to her before, always like this, creeping out of nowhere as if he’d been spying on her. The first time he’d done so was the first time she’d come to Sherwood by herself when she was ten, sneaking out just to see if she could, terrified she’d lose her way, thrilled to be alone with the quiet and vastness of it all. A voice had come out of the trees just like this, and she’d screamed and run until she realized that all he’d said was “Hello there.” He never got any closer than this. Never let her see him full in the light. He had a beard, she thought. He might have been just a man, lurking deep in the woods for reasons of his own.
Or he might have been a ghost.
“Some dust far off but getting closer,” she answered.
“A large party, then?”
“The lord and lady never travel with too large a party. Likely they’re traveling fast.” The lord and lady preferred traveling lightly and at speed, from long habit.
“Returning from meeting the king, yes?”
She took her eyes away from the road a moment, but no, he was still hidden, the shape of a man with no detail revealed. She wondered how he knew, how the gossip of the manor reached him here. Or if he simply knew. “Yes.”
The dust grew, resolved itself into riders. No litters and wagons for her parents and their train—the wagon with their tents and supplies would follow more slowly. Their pace was calm. She could make out the rippling, rose-colored fabric of her mother’s skirt, draped along her horse’s flank.
“Can you tell how the mood is from here? How the journey went?”
“I won’t know how it went until I see Father’s face,” she said.
“And see if he smiles or frowns?”
“No. And see if his smile is glad or wicked.” Her father would be smiling in any case.
The ghost laughed. “I know that wicked smile. Good luck, then.”