Marian awoke from her nap happy and refreshed, looking forward to tonight's banquet and festivities.
The waiting woman assigned to her, a tall, dark haired, middle aged beauty, had just finished dressing her and doing her hair, when Robin knocked softly on the door.
"Come in," Marian called out happily, pleased with her appearance. She was wearing a new gown she'd had made the week before they left for Aquitaine, a high waisted gown of pale blue gossamer-like fabric with silver threads throughout, which made it shimmer in the candlelight. Marian felt it one of the loveliest gowns she had ever owned, and it disguised her condition wonderfully.
Robin, Marian decided, looked extremely handsome. But then, she asked herself, didn't he always?
Entering, Robin quickly scanned the room, then looked disappointed because the flowers he'd ordered for Marian had not yet arrived. He'd been counting on the maid servant translating the bouquet's meaning as another delightful surprise for his wife. But it didn't matter, he told himself. The flowers would surely arrive soon, and the woman could tell Marian their meanings after the banquet, while preparing her for bed.
But Marian's words to the woman seemed to ruin his plan.
"That will be all," he heard Marian tell the servant, speaking French. "I won't be needing you any more tonight."
"Very good, my lady."
Robin spoke up, asking the servant to wait. "Won't you?" he asked Marian, speaking English. "You'll need her to undress you later, I think."
"I was hoping you'd do that," Marian told him, speaking English so the servant couldn't understand, her smile radiant and suggestive.
Robin could not object to that invitation. It might be fun after all, he decided, to explain the custom and the bouquet's meaning to Marian himself, if he could remember which flower was which.
Satisfied her husband understood, Marian switched back to French. "Goodnight," she told the servant, "and thank you, Ghislaine."
The woman departed before Robin could exclaim, "Ghislaine!"
"I know," Marian agreed, seeking to put his mind at rest. "I was surprised, too, when she told me. But she isn't Guy's mother."
"Isn't she?" Robin asked, alarmed. "How can you be sure, Marian?"
"I tested her. I spoke to her in English, and she didn't understand a word I said. If she were Guy's mother, she would have. His mother lived in York for years, before the family lost their lands. She would have had to be able to communicate in English with the people of Gisbourne."
"Perhaps she was only pretending not to understand you," Robin warned her, concerned. "I used to do it all the time."
"When?"
"In the Holy Land, after I taught myself the Saracen tongue. It's a good way to learn things you're not supposed to know."
Marian looked disturbed, then recovered her composure. "That was wartime," she decided. "Why would she want to deceive me? Ghislaine is a common enough name here, I think. And she's an excellent lady's maid."
"She would be, wouldn't she," Robin asked, "having had a lady's maid herself, when she was Lady Gisbourne."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"All the same, Marian, I think we should ask for a different maid to serve you."
"I don't want to offend her, Robin."
"And I don't want to risk you getting hurt."
Marian sighed in frustration, but decided it wasn't worth arguing over. "As long as we make it clear, she did nothing wrong."
"Agreed," Robin said, relieved and smiling as he took her in his arms. "You look very nice tonight," he said romantically. "In fact, you look gorgeous, Marian. Is that a new dress?"
"An early Christmas present, from you."
He chuckled. "Christmas is months away. But at least I'm glad I have good taste."
They shared a laugh, and then a warm, satisfying kiss.
Gazing up at him, Marian sighed and said, "I love it here. Such luxury! Did you know, there was a lute player outside my room, playing beautiful, soothing music, while I was falling asleep?"
Robin grinned back at her, hoping she would guess he'd been behind the music, having hired the musician to play for her.
"It was your doing, wasn't it?" Marian realized, grateful for his thoughtfulness, yet laughing inwardly at him for always needing to have his good works recognized. She understood this minor fault of his stemmed from his wanting to be loved, as Much had once told her, and she loved him even more for it. "Thank you," she said. "It was very special."
They kissed one another again, then Marian stepped away, teasing him, "You'll crush my Christmas present."
"You look so beautiful, Marian, I wouldn't be surprised if all the ladies try to copy you, and wear their gowns crushed from here on out."
"Speaking of the ladies," she said, taking his hand as they left their chambers to bid their daughters goodnight before heading for the banquet, "have you seen anything of your former inamorata, the Lady, if she may be called that, Marguerite?"
"She wasn't my inamorata," Robin objected, embarrassed.
"I meant 'lady.' What would you call her then?" Marian teased.
"A mistake. A weakness, rather. A poor attempt at trying to forget you."
"And did it work?"
"I told you, Marian...you're unforgettable."
"Good thing you didn't try again, at least not with her."
There was a jauntiness in her stride. She was radiant with happiness, enjoying Robin's company, about to enjoy kissing their little girls goodnight, then feasting on the delicious Aquitaine cuisine while listening to poetry and music, then dancing with Robin late into the night before, most lovely and exciting of all, making love with him alone in their room. He was, Marian believed, the most exquisite, perfect lover, and her desire for him continued to grow, just as their love for one another grew ever stronger.
She cared nothing about this Marguerite, though she teased Robin and was slightly curious to meet her. This French woman wasn't Isabella of Gisbourne, after all, a woman Robin had actually fallen for, briefly, and only to try to ease the pain in his heart when he thought he had lost Marian. This Lady Marguerite was just a quick one time fling in Robin's history because the woman had stalked him and practically begged him to have her, the hussy.
Being reminded of Isabella made Marian wonder whether it could be true if Ghislaine truly was Guy and Isabella's mother. She couldn't be! It was too great a coincidence! But what if she was? What if she was in touch with Guy, planning to help him capture her again? Their mother had run away with a travelling troubadour, after all, and the court in Aquitaine had more troubadours working here than any other place in Europe.
But no, Marian decided. It was ridiculous. All the same, she decided she would always carry a weapon and be careful, while staying here.
She wished she hadn't donated that brooch Guy had recently given her to the nuns in the convent so they could sell it and give the proceeds to the poor. If she had kept it, she could show it to Ghislaine and watch her reaction. Unless the woman was as skilled a performer as Sheriff Vasey's sister, Marian would know whether she truly was Guy's mother, or just an innocent waiting woman. But she hadn't the brooch any more, so the thought was useless.
She decided not to think about any of it now. Right now, she would enjoy the sweetness of her darling little girls while putting them to bed, then enjoy the night's festivities and the loving attentions of her handsome, sexy husband.
...
In another room of the castle, Marguerite looked over the bouquet of flowers her servant brought her, an answer, she believed, from the handsome Robin of Locksley to the bouquet she had sent him.
Red roses and blue forget-me nots...a declaration of true love? And ivy...meaning marriage? What could the former crusader be thinking?
Marguerite was confused, though not put off. Perhaps the man, not proficient in the language of flowers, was trying to remind her he was already married, as if she didn't know that, having watched him with his beautiful pregnant wife and their two small daughters. Hadn't she included a full rose and two buds in her bouquet to him, indicating secrecy? She would be sure to be discreet and keep their meeting secret, not only so his wife wouldn't know, but also her husband!
Her husband was very jealous, and Marguerite did not want to upset him. But it was worth the risk, for Robin of Locksley attracted her even more than he had before, when he was so young and thin, having barely survived a fever from his war wound and been ill for months. He was handsomer now than ever, and no longer inexperienced in bed as he had been, though he'd showed such promise, thrilling her as she hadn't been thrilled before or since! She could only imagine how he would be able to thrill her now!
Yes, tonight would prove very interesting, Marguerite anticipated, if only the two of them could manage to sneak away from the dancing, after her husband was suitably drunk and his wife sleepy!
...
(Note: If you like to picture things in your head, the gown Marian is wearing is the one she wore at the end of the television series, when Robin meets her spirit after he dies. But I'm so glad to be able to write and read stories where neither one of them dies, at least not yet!)