Disappearing discreetly from the banqueting hall just after Robin and Marian left it, Marguerite hurried to the library, believing she would find Robin of Locksley waiting for her there, alone and eager. He wasn't, and her hopes for a romantic adventure seemed dashed. But still she waited for him to arrive, hoping he had simply forgotten the way. Time at last convinced her Robin was not coming, and she grew annoyed, then began planning another bouquet of flowers to send him, this one full of reproaches.

Robin, angry at Marian's stubbornness, had gone directly to their daughters' rooms, knowing he would calm himself just by looking at his little girls sleeping. Not wanting to disturb Nurse, he entered as silently as if he were still an outlaw sneaking into Nottingham Castle.

He did not remain long. The sight of his little girls asleep, so innocent and peaceful, warmed his heart and banished his anger. He wanted now to make up with Marian, even if she had been wrong to accuse him falsely.

He left their daughters' rooms and entered the suite he shared with his wife to think of what he might say when she arrived. Seeing his bow in a corner, he picked it up and held it, feeling more like himself with it in his hands.

Leaving Ghislaine and her ghastly Gisbourne family stories, Marian found Robin in their rooms holding his bow, and she knew nothing was wrong between them.

"I'm sorry I didn't listen," she told him.

"I'm sorry I made you doubt me." He placed his bow back against the wall and faced her. "I never sent her flowers, Marian. I ordered a bouquet for you, and the servant made a mistake and gave it to her instead."

"You sent me flowers?"

"I tried to. Apparently, flowers have meanings here, so I wanted to send you a message."

"Robin, why didn't you tell me?"

"You didn't give me a chance."

"Sorry." She brushed her embarrassment aside and shyly asked, "What did you want the flowers to say to me?"

He walked to her and took her in his arms, smiling lovingly down at her. "I can't remember all of it, but red roses and forget-me-nots mean love."

Marian giggled softly. "Fool!" she chided affectionately, biting her lower lip and blushing with pleasure. "Red roses always stand for love. And forget-me-nots are blue."

"There's more, if you want to listen."

"Go on then."

"I wish I knew what flower stands for being stubborn," he teased.

"I'd have a basketful delivered to you," she teased back. "What else did you try to send me?"

"Ivy," he remembered, "meaning marriage."

"That must have confused Marguerite!"

He chuckled. "It must have. I remember oak leaves mean bravery, and something else is beauty. There was more, but I can't remember."

"Try. Don't worry about the flowers or leaves, just tell me what you wanted to say."

"Alright then." He gazed romantically into her lovely face. "Enchantment, Marian, and passion, and...I can't think what else."

Her smile beamed, and she cast her eyes modestly down, then lifted them again to his face. "It sounds beautiful, Robin. I wish I knew what flower means, 'I'm sorry.' I'd send it to you."

"That's an easy one," he invented, his voice hushed. "It's tulips."

"Tulips?" She felt herself being swept up in his loving mood. "Really?"

"Two very lovely lips," he answered, leaning down to kiss hers.

Although caught up in the moment, his cleverness was too much. Lifting one hand to her mouth, she intercepted his kiss. "You practiced that, didn't you, before I came?" she challenged him.

"No, I didn't." He retained his charm, his desire to kiss her only increasing. "It just came to me now, looking at you."

"Tulips," she repeated, running her trembling fingertips lightly over his mouth. "I am sorry we argued."

"I'm not, since making up is so..." They kissed, and then very blissfully, very thoroughly and completely, made up their argument.

...

Ghislaine, trembling with fear and emotion, found the troubadour Alain in the banqueting hall as he waited to perform another ballad for the Aquitainian nobility.

"You must help me," she begged her lover.

"How? What is wrong?"

"Help me discredit the English guests," she pleaded. "Ruin their reputations by making up different songs about Robin Hood, making him appear a fool and a cuckold, and Maid Marian a lying deceiving whore who truly loves Guy of Gisbourne instead of Robin Hood."

"But why? Have you forgotten their king is also the Duke of Aquitaine? I'll be censored, Ghislaine, and thrown out of court, for mocking the couple who saved his life."

Ghislaine realized her lover was right, but refused to give up. "Start with the lower classes then," she decided. "Make up the songs, and teach them to the servants and the peasantry. If your lyrics are naughty and titallating enough, they'll spread like wildfire."

"Why, Ghislaine? I can do it, of course, but what good will it do us?"

"It's a start," she answered. "We must take away their hero status until we decide what next we should do, to drive them out of Aquitaine forever, or have them thrown into the dungeon."

"The dungeon? He's still Robin Hood, no matter how my lyrics paint him," Alain reminded her. "A dungeon, whether here or in Nottingham, cannot hold him."

"Stories, Alain," Ghislaine scolded. "You don't actually believe those tales you sing, do you?"

"Perhaps you're right," he decided. "As long as nothing comes back to harm us."

"Nothing can, if Robin of Locksley and his family are removed. If not, I fear my identity will be exposed and I'll be punished for my son's crimes, and you will be forced to wander the countryside again, making your living singing to poor villagers who can't even feed themselves."

"Alright," Alain said, already beginning to think up nasty lyrics. "What rhymes with cuckold?"