Indeed it was, and when they arrived back at the manor, the sun was up. Mary was first in the hall, rushing in to see the ghost for herself: asleep, wrapped in blankets and furs, his naked shoulder
bandaged. Entirely mortal, and this was a relief.
“He’s asleep?” she whispered to Joan, who was seated nearby, with her spindle. The matron beamed at her, at them all when they came into the hall after her.
“Yes, my lady. He’s had a long night but he’s doing well. And you’re safe? Everyone’s safe?” All was well, all was safe.
The man, Little John, stirred. He squinted, focused on Mary, then sank back.
“God be praised,” he murmured.
“Is he here?” the younger John called, running up next to Mary, and Eleanor was right behind him, until they were all lined up and staring at the Ghost of Sherwood.
“You’re all here,” Little John said wonderingly.
Mary sat on a bench nearby. “Why did you hide? Why not come out of the woods, even to visit?”
“Right at the moment, I can’t think why. But I’m glad I was out there last night.”
“Me as well. Thank you.”
“The company of Robin of Locksley watches out for each other.” He looked up to see Robin and Marian arrive, and chuckled.
They stayed in the hall while Joan fetched food and wine, and they told the story of all that had passed. John—Young John, as they had begun to call him—told it best, though he stretched the truth almost to the point of breaking, going on about how he wanted to fight them all and steal their bows and put arrows in all their throats but Mary stopped him because she said the bows were too big for Eleanor to draw, and, and . . .
“You could have given Eleanor one of the swords,” Robin said.
“Well, yes, that’s true, but there were plenty of knives to be had, and that would perhaps be better.”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Dearest, don’t encourage him,” Marian said.
“Who, me? I never.” Robin winked.
Mary decided then that she believed all the stories about her parents, every single one of them.
John continued. “Then the brute made Mary shoot a bow, to see if she could shoot like you.”
“How did she do?” Robin asked, eyeing Mary across the hearth.
“The shot was impossible, but she did it. I don’t think you could have done it, Father, but she did.”
Robin laughed. “Well done, Mary.”
“John, you’re exaggerating,” Mary said.
“I think we’ve earned some exaggeration, after this night,” the boy said. “We spread this story, no one will ever bother us again.”
“He isn’t wrong,” Will Scarlet said.
“Indeed,” Robin said, and seemed pleased.
Then Robin and Will went out to prepare the cart and bodies to send to the Earl of Pembroke and his son; Little John fell asleep, and so did Young John and Eleanor. Eleanor slept with her head in Marian’s lap, Marian’s arm resting over her like a shield. John had wrapped himself in a blanket and settled on a bench. He shifted, restless.
Mary couldn’t sleep. She’d watched Edmund and the others die and still couldn’t entirely believe they were gone. She wasn’t sure what she thought of her father’s plan to send the bodies to the Earl of Pembroke—Mary had heard of William Marshal, and she wondered if he would send men back to Locksley, to attack in retribution for the deaths. Or if this would all be laid on the younger William Marshal and forgotten. It would never end. And Robin believed he could keep them safe.
“Mary?”