At the threshold of the banqueting hall, Marian asked Robin for a favor. "Let me know which lady is Marguerite."
"Marian..."
"I'm not jealous, Robin, only curious."
Robin breathed out an unhappy sigh. "It meant nothing, Marian, truly."
"I know. And that's why I'm not jealous."
Robin searched her happy, excited face and reluctantly agreed. "Alright," he said, sighing again, "as long as it won't upset you."
"It won't. It will put us instead on an equal tilting field."
"Tilting?"
"Playing field, then. You do wish to play, don't you?"
She challenged him with her smile, causing him to smile in return, his heart, mind, and body completely won over again, as if he was falling in love with her for the first time.
He felt happy in his love, knowing Marian felt the same. Stepping inside the banqueting chamber with Marian at his side, he let his eyes sweep across the candlelight and locate Marguerite. A quick, formal nod her direction told Marian which woman had once been Robin's seductress.
Marian was surprised, for Marguerite was not at all what she had expected. She wasn't beautiful like Isabella nor obviously alluring like Sarah, the blond furrier's daughter who would have certainly enjoyed all of Robin but his heart, had the furrier not discovered them kissing and fought him off. Instead, Marian felt Marguerite looked winsome, appealing, and somewhat sad.
She was petite and slender, with masses of thick dark hair put up to frame her pale, oval face. Her features were small and regular, with nothing standing out as remarkable except perhaps her deep set dark eyes, unremarkable except for their look of searching appeal as they rested on Robin, a look Robin's chivalrous rather than his passionate nature would have had trouble refusing. Completing her impression of innocence, Marguerite wore a dove gray colored gown decorated with pearls, elegant in its simplicity, the same color the nuns in the convent in Normandy had worn.
"She admires you still," Marian told Robin, "though she looks innocent enough."
Remembering the messages contained in the bouquet Marguerite had sent him, Robin knew that Marian was half right. "Come on," he said, wanting to dismiss Marguerite and enjoy his wife's company, "let's eat."
They were escorted to their place of honor beside Lord Joscelin, Queen Eleanor's half brother, who seemed pleased to see them and lost no time complimenting Marian. "I am charmed by your beauty," he told her gallantly, with all sincerity and none of the implications Count Frederick had used behind his gallant compliments, for Joscelin was an old man, more fatherly toward Marian than loverlike.
A middle aged troubadour was singing a love song, and Marian wondered if he might be the man Ghislaine had run away with, if indeed she was truly was Guy and Isabella's mother.
Robin chatted pleasantly with Joscelin, then grinned as he watched Marian enjoying the first course.
"Do you like it?" he asked, tasting the dish without experiencing the difficulty Marian was experiencing eating it.
She managed to swallow the bite she had taken at last. "It's delicious," she answered him quietly. "At least, the sauce is. The meat is tough, though. It seems to expand and grow bigger, the longer I chew it."
"Try not to chew, but just swallow it down," Robin advised.
"Alright." She took a very small bite and let it slide down her throat. "It really is delicious," she told him. "What is it?"
Robin's grin turned mischievous. "I'll tell you later," he teased.
But Marian, suspicious now, was not so easily appeased. "Lord Joscelin," she asked, "this dish tastes delicious. I've never had it before. May I ask what it is?"
"Escargot, my lady, a specialty of the region. I am pleased it meets your approval."
Marian, having no idea what escargot was but wanting to hide that fact from her husband, finished eating her portion, wishing she didn't have to leave the remaining sauce on her plate.
"What?" she asked Robin, whose grin continued to disturb her.
Robin said nothing, laughing inside as he anticipated what Marian's reaction would be later, when he told her they had eaten snails, a creature she battled from ruining her garden back home in Locksley.
The remainder of the dinner was equally delicious, and more recognizable. Robin was charming, as only he could be, and attentive, and Marian's only regret was she couldn't sample the wine.
She thoroughly enjoyed the music and the recitations of poetry, all dealing with the subject of love. In honor of their visit, several of the songs and poems dealt with the love between bold Robin Hood and the beautiful Maid Marian. Embarrassing her, Marian enjoyed those least of all.
"And you call what I say 'drivel,' " Robin quietly teased her, seeking to lighten her discomfort.
"You have no soul, Robin of Locksley," she teased back, appreciating his concern, and fondly remembering his proposal of marriage. Neither his choice of time and place, over a freshly dug grave in the middle of the day, nor his words comparing her to his weapon, beautiful and heartfelt as they were, came anywhere near to being as eloquent as the poetry recited here tonight, but his attitude when asking for her hand couldn't have moved her more, and she adored him for it.
Glancing across the room at Marguerite, Marian saw the other woman immediately look away and turn her appealing attention to a stout man at her side, making certain his wine goblet was never empty.
"Look all you want," Marian silently told Marguerite in her thoughts. "But you may not have my husband."
The dinner, troubadour songs, and poetry recitations over, the musicians struck up in earnest and the dancing began.
Marian adored dancing, especially with Robin who was as graceful on the dance floor as he was on the battlefield, even with his leg wound not fully healed. But although skilled, Robin had little fondness for it, except when dancing with Marian because it pleased her and served as a prelude to romance yet to come.
He was enjoying dancing with her tonight, until a tune Marian did not recognize began to be played. "What is it?" she asked Robin, noticing the excitement of the other couples.
"It's called a branle," he answered, assuring her. "It's alright, you'll catch on to it soon."
"Why is everyone so excited then?"
"We change partners, every time the music changes," he explained, without excitement.
Marian noticed Marguerite had not danced until joining the other couples now. The stout man did not join her, but she had walked right up to Lord Joscelin, giving him her sad but appealing gaze, and he'd chivalrously escorted her to the dance.
At the very first change in music, Marian found herself comfortably dancing with Lord Joscelin, until she realized Marguerite had staged it so, so that she could dance with Robin. Marian watched them, trying her best to hear every word they spoke.
"Thank you for the flowers," Marguerite told a confused Robin, whose eyes sought Marian's, apologizing while declaring himself innocent.
"Flowers?" he repeated, once her words sank in, disturbed by the stern, questioning look Marian shot back at him. "I didn't send..." Grasping the servant's mistake, he tried to explain. "I'm sorry. I meant those flowers for my wife."
"You mean, you ignored to answer the bouquet I first sent you?" Marguerite lifted her eyes, beginning to shimmer with tears, to his face. "You no longer like me?"
"I barely know you," he objected.
"Barely indeed," she said seriously, using a pun humorlessly to remind him of their past nakedness together. "You liked me then, yes?"
"I'm married now," he explained, glad for the excuse. "That lady you see in blue, dancing with Lord Joscelin, is my wife."
The music changed again before Marguerite could force a tear or two to fall from her eyes, and Robin was grateful to move on to any other partner.
So, he thought, dancing with a fragile blond who was trying to flirt with him, that was the reason Marian had not received the flowers he'd thought he'd sent her. A dangerous mix up, but luckily, no harm done. After several more changes in music, Robin found himself back to partnering his wife.
"What is this about flowers?" Marian hissed at him, before "accidentally" stomping on his foot.