Robin squinted and looked across the quiet field. “I seem to have forgot my bow.”
“Because you had no intention of shooting.”
“And how has your practice been getting on? You’ve been practicing while we were gone, yes? I know many folk think a girl should not use a bow, but you’re as good a shot as any man in the kingdom—”
Mary said, impatiently, “Mother said you have something to tell me.”
He crossed his arms and finally looked at her. “While we were in Surrey, I met a young man. William de Ros. He’s the son of the Baron of Helmsley, a good friend and ally. He will inherit.”
The last bit of the description remained unspoken: he’s looking for a wife. And perhaps Mary was no longer too young and this offer was not too grasping.
“Is it all arranged, then?” she asked. “I’m to marry him?”
“You don’t miss a thing, do you? To think I was afraid I would have to explain it all, and that there would be tears. But no, it’s not entirely arranged. We’ve got some time yet to think it over.” He watched her, likely looking for some reaction, and she tried to think of what reaction to give him. She felt strangely distant from it all.
Finally, she asked, “Why is this offer better than the one you refused last year?”
He started. “You weren’t supposed to know about that.”
“Yes, but have you tried keeping secrets around here?”
He laughed, shook his head. “That man was twice your age and he’s already put two young wives in their graves. He has six children, and yours would not inherit his land and titles. You’d have been an ornament to him, something to brag about. You would not have been safe.”
“And I will be, with William de Ros?”
“I hope so.”
Would any of them ever be safe? She had listened to the talk running through the manor: the charter Robin had won from the king would not be observed, war among the barons would come again, probably soon.
“If you need me to marry him, I will.” There seemed to be precious little else she could do.
“Oh, no, need is a strong word. If you absolutely refuse, I will not press. Your mother would never speak to me again if I forced you to marry where you did not wish to.”
“This is why she’s angry with you?”
“She’s furious with me for not asking you first. But . . . the offer came, and there wasn’t time. You know, I never noticed this before but you’re as tall as she is. When did that happen?”
“While you were gone, I suppose.”
“Let’s get back, shall we? We can talk more after you’ve had a chance to think about things.”
They walked back together, and the world continued to tilt off-balance. She expected him to kiss her cheek before he went back to his chores, as he’d always done when she was little. Instead, he gave an awkward dip of his head, something like a bow, and went off without a word. It made her sad.
This left her facing her mother, Eleanor, the women, and Mary found she didn’t want to say anything at all.
“Well?” Marian asked. “You seem very calm.”
“It’s only that I don’t know how else I should be right now. Did you meet this William de Ros?”
“Yes,” her mother said, her voice carefully even.
“Is he tall?” What an odd thing to ask, but it was the first thing to come to mind.
“Not so much. But he is quite handsome. Earnest. Mary, you do not have to accept him if you do not wish it.”
“But you think I should?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. Clearly.” She muttered this last, studying the work in her hands with a scowl.
How much easier if they would simply tell her she must do this thing. Then she would know what she must prepare for. Or she could stay at Locksley forever and . . . what? She saw nothing clearly. She was an arrow in need of a bow, to send her off in one direction or another.
“If you’ll excuse me, please.” She needed to think. She needed to be alone, and so she fled. Her mother didn’t call her back, and Eleanor watched her go.
In her room, she stared at her hands and wondered what they were good for. She had a callus from a needle and another from a bowstring. She didn’t fit into her own skin, mostly because she wasn’t sure what that skin was meant to do. It was all very confusing. She stripped out of her gown, put on her leggings and tunic and leather shoes, and left the house by the back way. If she marched with confidence, like she had a job to do, no one would stop her or question her. She looked like a stableboy, not the lord’s daughter. She didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to get away with the disguise.
Footsteps ran up the path behind her. “Where are you going?” John asked, coming alongside. And how had he found her?
“I’m just taking a walk,” Mary said.
“May I come with you?” John asked, his manner so calm and polite, she couldn’t refuse.
“I can’t stop you,” she said, sounding surly and childish to her own ears.
Before they’d even left the manor grounds, they passed Eleanor sitting on the fence of the paddock outside the stables, arms crossed. She seemed to study them both, her face pursed up with concentration.
“I suppose you want to go too?” Mary said.
Her sister hopped off the fence and walked up between them, and on. Mary and John exchanged a glance. He shrugged, as if to say he didn’t understand her either.
So much for getting away from everyone and not having to talk.
The path went through a pasture, then through a barley field, and then it faded away. If they cut off in one direction they would come to the main road. But Mary went ahead, to the trees of Sherwood. The afternoon light shone golden, and the shadows among the oaks seemed not so dark. Mary wanted to climb into some branches and sit for a while. She didn’t know if her siblings would understand. For now, she kept walking.
“What do you think really happened, when Father spoke to the king?” John said.
“Who’s to say? Everything about Father is stories.”
Eleanor ranged ahead, finding a stick and using it to turn over rocks and little hummocks of rotted leaves, looking for mushrooms. Mary almost told her not to eat anything she found, but she knew Eleanor knew better than that.
“Do you not think the stories are true, then? The old ones, I mean. About Mother and Father and Uncle Will and Much and the rest?”
Mary didn’t answer. She wanted to believe them, but she didn’t want to admit she did, which meant, really, she likely didn’t believe them at all. Except . . . except she had met the ghost. Even now, she glanced up, searching the shadows between boughs and branches for a tall man wearing a hood.
Up ahead, Eleanor had straightened and now stood rigid, looking at something hidden among the trees. Mary saw it immediately and grabbed John’s arm. She reached for her sister just as Eleanor backed into her grip.
Three, no four of them—men lurking within a dense copse. They might have been walking along just as innocently as the children, just as surprised by the appearance of anyone else in this corner of the forest. But they had bows and quivers on their shoulders, and swords at their belts.
“We should be getting home,” Mary said calmly, to no one in particular, and guided her siblings back the way they’d come. “We’ll be missed soon.”