“My lady, they will do very well,” Robin said, taking Marian’s hand.
Now she looked like she was about to cry. “I am so very proud of you both.”
Mary kissed her mother on the cheek and offered a smile. “It will all be over soon one way or another.”
“Be easy, Mary, just this once,” Marian said.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Ready?” John asked her. She nodded and they set off, with the whole of the Locksley household looking after them. The weight of the regard was heavy. John, her little brother who was taller than she was now and had somehow started the barest shadow of a beard growing and seemed so terribly sure of himself, said, “She’s right, there’s nothing to worry about. We’re telling a story, that’s all.”
“The story of Robin Hood? Are we supposed to be play-acting, then?”
“Yes, in a sense.”
Eleanor met them on the path into town, standing expectantly, hands clasped before her. She had a spindle and roving tucked in her belt, her veil was neat, she didn’t look at all out of place except that she wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be back at camp, with Beatrice and their mother.
Mary sighed. “We talked about this. You shouldn’t come. It’ll be loud and crowded and—”
Her sister tipped up her chin and marched ahead.
“I’m not going to argue with her,” John said, shrugging, and followed her.
And how was it that Eleanor managed to get her way so often when she didn’t even speak? This was going to be a long day, Mary feared.
The royal household had put together as fine an archery pitch as Mary could imagine. A dozen butts spread out along the distant end of the field, newly painted, the target colors bright. The stands were filled with
the same rich and varied collection of lords and ladies as at the coronation, pages and attendants, banners fluttering over shaded viewing stands. All so pretty and lively. Were they supposed to bring attendants? Tables and chairs, silver platters full of food and drink?
No, never mind, they were here to shoot.
“There,” John said, looking over the gathering with a calculating eye. “There is the king, and I wager that’s his archery master.” A collection of men with bows and quivers had gathered on the ground near the middle of the viewing stand, where the largest of the banners flew, and the richest lords and ladies sat. In the middle of them all, a boy sat formally in an ornately carved chair. The king.
The archery master, an older man wearing a baldric of royal red and gold, moved among them, taking names and looking at bows.
“They’re all men,” Mary said. “I know I’m not the only woman in England who shoots. I thought . . . well.” She didn’t know what she thought.
“It may only be that they’re not here today,” John said.
He was sweet for trying to make her feel better.
If Mary hoped they could slip in unnoticed, and that there would be a whole crowd of archers to lose herself among, she hoped in vain. Mary and her siblings appeared, and the crowd turned to watch. Maybe the green wasn’t such a good idea after all . . .
“Trained bear,” she muttered.
“Don’t forget to smile,” John said, touching his cap.
Eleanor hesitated, bumping into Mary and clutching her skirt. Mary wanted to hiss that she’d warned her it would be like this, but she didn’t.
“Can you find a quiet place to sit?” Mary asked. Preferably someplace no one would try to talk to her . . . Eleanor bit her lip and nodded. Gave Mary a quick kiss on the cheek for luck, which was heartening, and then she ran off to a spot on the grass near the end of the viewing stand, where some other young girls sat with sewing and spinning, that still had a good view of the field.
A dozen men had come to shoot in the king’s contest. They looked over when the Locksley siblings approached, their gazes narrowed and appraising, their lips frowning or smirking. We must look like such children to them, Mary thought.
Her bow felt like an old friend, holding her hand.
“Lord John! Lady Mary! Welcome!” the king called.
John bowed deeply. “Your Grace, thank you for the opportunity to display our meager talents for you.”