In the next breath, the stout man with the ruddy beard was dead on the ground, and his remaining men lost their minds. Will’s arrow struck the next, and Robin’s second arrow the next after that. By then, the fourth man was running deep into the woods—the wrong way from the road. With any
luck, he would lose his way and die of thirst and hunger. Not many could make their livings in Sherwood, and none who could would help him. They let him go.
In the now-silent camp, there was no sign of the children. The fire burned low, throwing a glowering orange light and making the shadows of the trees dance like living things. Some distance away, torches burned—no, they were tufts of grass and moss, lit quickly and burning out. Distractions, Marian realized. But to strangers in Sherwood, they must have seemed like curses.
Robin kicked the body of the ruddy-bearded man. “He’s one of the younger William Marshal’s men.” The elder William Marshal had remained loyal to the king, but his son had been with the rebels—for a time. Now, he must have thought he could prove his loyalty by taking hostages. What better way to control Robin of Locksley than by holding blades to the throats of his children? Robin raged. “This is how the braggart seeks favor with the king? By stealing children?”
“So, it wasn’t the king’s command that did this?” Marian asked.
“No,” Robin admitted tiredly. “No, this time, the king has left us alone.”
Will considered a moment. “We were perhaps a bit hasty killing them. If they’ve hidden the children somewhere—”
“Where in God’s name are they?” Robin stormed around the camp, looking behind trees, turning over a cloak or two as if they might have been stashed there.
Marian saw the bits of ropes on the ground at the base of a wide oak. She raised the lantern, looked up. Three pairs of shining eyes were tucked away high in the tree as if they had been born there, forest creatures well at home.
“Robin.”
“What? Marian, my God, how can you be so calm?”
“Robin. Look up.”
He and Will did, saw the children perched in the branches, gazing back calmly. Will laughed, and Robin bowed his head and aged a dozen years before her eyes.
As if they had come to the woods for a lark, Mary called, “We need help getting Eleanor down, please.”
viii
THEIR FATHER CLAMBERED EASILY into the tree, though it must have been years since he’d done anything like it. Between them, Mary and John coaxed their sister to the next branch down to meet him. Keeping tight hold of her hand, Mary lowered her to their father’s arms. Eleanor clung to him.
“Darling girl,” he murmured against her head. “Were you very frightened?” She nodded solemnly, and Robin held her for a long, consoling moment. He in turn lowered her to Will and Marian, who gasped a little when she finally had the girl in her arms.
John was next, and he mostly made the climb himself but wasn’t too proud to grab his father’s arms when they came in reach.
“I was only a little frightened,” John announced. “I knew you would come for us.”
Robin laughed and cupped his son’s face. “Good lad. Off you go to your mother, now.”
Then came Mary. She sat on the branch just above her father’s reach, waiting until Robin saw John safely down. Thinking of what she would say when he looked back up at her. She might scream at him, as if this was all his fault. She might burst into tears like a child. She might do neither. Her face must have looked frightful. She saw that in his troubled gaze, however much false brightness his smile held.
“And what about you, Mary? Did you know I would come for you?”
“I knew you would try.”
His expression fell, and she had a brief glimpse of an old man, full of care. “Oh, my sweet girl, I am so sorry.”
She made her way to the next branch, putting herself on a level with him. “I was frightened for John and Eleanor. If they got hurt . . . I couldn’t let them get hurt. But I didn’t know if I could stop it. That was what frightened me.”
“That is a fear I know well.” He reached out and brushed tears from her face. They had slipped silently, and her cold and aching cheeks stung with them. “There is no shame in fear. It’s what keeps you and yours alive.”
“Have you ever been afraid, really?” she said.
“This night, I was terrified.”
Mary decided to be a child then, just for a moment, and she put her arms around her father’s neck and cried while he held her.
They all arrived on the ground, and Marian came to her, closing her arms around her, crying silently. “I’m all right, Mother. We’re all right,” Mary repeated, but found herself clinging. For as long as the night felt, the end of it had happened so quickly that part of her was still praying that their captors would leave Eleanor alone, and thinking of what to say next to the big bearded man to distract him from her siblings.