Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] by Lady of the Forest Page B

watched the sheriff go, knowing he’d given the man cause to temporarily cut off—only temporarily. Locksley anticipated a siege—his overture concerning the daughter made that clear. Not in words, perhaps. Nothing in what was said. But in what he hadn’t said.
    Whatever deLacey was—ambitious, opportunistic; no different from the others—clearly he wasn’t a fool.
    Locksley gripped and rubbed a forearm, aware of a vague disquietude because he didn’t know the cause for the conviction nagging at him. Too light. No weight.
    And then the answer arrived, cloaked in memory.
    They had stripped him of his mail, there on the battlefield before his compatriots. He’d never worn it again.
    Though Richard had offered him new.

Eight
    At cockcrow Marian awoke. She lay very still, contemplating her state: she was abed with Matilda, her old nurse, and countless other women all tangled amidst shared covers and rustling straw-filled mattresses put down to soften the floor. A draft touched knee and elbow; she had slept at the end nearest the corner and therefore suffered more than others the whims of fickle covers.
    Marian hunched, pulling knee and elbow back into scratchy warmth, and squinted somewhat resentfully into the dim, mote-filled daylight. I should go home.
    It was as definitive as abrupt, shocking her out of lassitude into total wakefulness. Her disquiet passed into painful recollection: all too vividly she remembered John’s actions and the sick humiliation that had followed. Marian gritted her teeth. She wanted nothing more to do with John, or her host, or her host’s son; most certainly she wanted nothing more to do with William deLacey.
    But why? her conscience asked. Better to marry him, whom you know, than a decrepit old stranger. Yet Marian was not at all certain. Each time she thought of the sheriff she thought also of his manner, the underlying suggestiveness and secrecy she was beginning to see too clearly. And after talking with his daughter—
    Eleanor was perhaps not the most unbiased of observers. Better she judge for herself.
    Should I marry him? Or, perhaps a better question, why should I not marry him? Her father clearly wished it. He had sent the message with the earl’s son, which indicated he knew himself likely to die and Locksley likely to live.
    Because he was Huntington’s son?
    It’s too early to think of such things. She flung back covers and was rewarded by grumbles from Matilda, who hitched a heavy hip so it jutted roofward and yanked the covers back over a substantial shoulder.
    Marian smiled briefly. Then amusement and fondness were replaced with determination. “I’m going,” she muttered. “That is that; it’s decided.” On knees, she shook her sleeping-braid free of straw and tried valiantly to tame the escaping locks so she could tuck everything away into her linen coif. Then, having smoothed the rucked-up kirtle and undershift, she was all bound up inside and out, wanting to flee Huntington Castle but hating herself for cowardice.
    Courtesy required she find her host and beg his leave to go, but probably the earl wouldn’t miss her if she simply slipped away. I doubt he knows I was here . . . Marian staggered to her feet, picked a last bit of straw from her hair, turned toward the door.
    Through it came Eleanor deLacey, pale, with dark-circled eyes aglitter. Lank brown hair was mussed, falling free of her stained, lopsided coif; the saffron kirtle was soiled, and a rose-hued smudge of a bruise stained the side of her neck. Briefly she touched it as she saw Marian’s gaze, then drew her hand away with a grimace. A flick of fingers pulled her hair close to hide it.
    Outside in the bailey someone shouted an order. A second shout answered it. Eleanor sighed deeply, thumping the door closed. “Damn him,” she said evenly. “Damn him and his hunt!” She squinted the length of the room, marking the swaddled women still under coverlets. A few were stirring; one slurred a