The Ghosts of Sherwood (The Robin Hood Stories 1)

Mary shook herself awake and tried to be attentive. “What did you like best about the king’s court?” she asked her mother.

“Oh, the news, I think. News from abroad, from across the kingdom.”

“Did you meet the queen?”

“Not really, not so as to mention.” Marian winked and donned a bit of a grin. “Her Majesty mostly wanted a look at your father. But these days, he doesn’t look so very much like the stories say he did. I think she was disappointed.”

“Surely not,” Mary said, astonished.

“Or it may be only that everyone was angry with your father. But no, I mostly stood to the side and watched with the rest of the wives. I’ll tell you a secret, though: the wives have all the good gossip.” A dog barked, ran up to Will and John, who stopped sparring to send it away, laughing. Mary was trying to think of what gossip Marian meant. Nearby, Joan and Beatrice were talking about which chickens were laying best this month and which might be ready for the soup pot.

“Why is Eleanor so much better at spinning than I am?” Mary said. Her sister had diligently spun her entire bundle of wool and started on the next.

“She doesn’t get distracted.”

Her sister seemed hypnotized by the spindle in her hand and the slender, perfectly even yarn twisting around as it emerged from between her small fingers. The stitches Mary had been making in the tunic seemed hideously large and uneven. Her mother would look at them and say, “It’s fine, it’s not like we’ll be showing it to the king.”

Father came around the corner then, dusting off his hands, appearing nothing like the nobleman he was, in a faded tunic, the sleeves rolled up, mended leggings and sweat-stained cap. He’d been looking over the livestock. He paused a moment to watch John and Will. But his smile fell when his gaze came to the women. Mother pointedly did not look back at him at all.

Then he called, “Mary, will you walk with me? Perhaps we can put a few arrows in a target. I fear I’m a bit out of practice.”

This was flatly untrue, and this was odd. She glanced at her mother, who murmured, “Go on. He has something to tell you.”

Even Eleanor looked up then, and Mary’s stomach turned over.

She knotted the stitch she’d just made, broke the thread, put the tunic back in the basket, and went to meet her father.

He was pensive. She had watched for his glad smile or wicked smile and hadn’t seen either one. Now he hardly looked at her as they took the path from the back of the manor, across the grassy stretch to the archery stand. Bales of straw stood at varying distances, with painted cloth pinned to them for targets. There was often someone out here practicing, either the children of the manor or Locksley’s guards and foresters. Robin valued his archers. Today, the field was empty.

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.