"Where is she?" Robin demanded, when Little John returned to camp alone. "John?"
Little John shook his head. "Her, I could not catch. Sorry, Robin."
"You saw her, though?"
John nodded.
"What direction is she heading?"
"East."
"Good."
Dusk was falling. It would be dark soon, and bitterly cold. Robin's concern bordered on agony, but he masked his feelings as best as he could. Yet his men knew how he felt. "Split up," he ordered them. "Fan out east. Let's find her, now!"
...
Much ran with Robin, pushing himself to keep up. When they reached the cave, Robin dashed inside. "Marian!" he shouted.
His voice returned to him, echoing back through the dank caverns. Nothing answered but a swarm of bats.
"I hate bats!" Much complained.
"She's not here," Robin realized, looking grim and worried. "Continue east. She might have gone home."
"Knighton?" Much asked. "But, Robin, there's nothing there. Gisbourne burned everything. There's not even a-"
Robin didn't wait to listen. He had to find her, and bring her safely back to camp. He'd apologize and help her, listen to her and do all within his power to make her feel safe and sheltered and loved. Especially loved.
...
Marian found it surprisingly easy to slip into Nottingham, joining a small group of workmen heading home.
Disguised as well as possible, with her cape pulled around her, her hood shielding most of her face, and her eyebrows, chin and skin above her lips darkened by the charred end of a stick, Marian felt the rush of adventure.
Getting into the castle would be suicide. So she headed to the next best place, where she hoped to gather information.
Women didn't frequent the Trip To Jerusalem Inn, at least not "nice" women. She had never been inside, and was curious about what it would be like.
It suddenly hit her that she was enjoying herself. Her heart still felt heavy, though not nearly as deeply. She had purpose and danger, two things she thrived upon.
It was warm and noisy in the Trip. The combined smells of unwashed men, stale ale, and smoking tallow grease candles assaulted her nostrils, but she didn't mind. She didn't, she reminded herself, smell too lovely herself.
A plump young bar wench with ample bosom spilling over her blouse approached, wide hips swaying. "What can I get you?" she asked.
"Ale," Marian answered, deepening her voice.
"You're new 'ere, aren't you?" the barmaid asked brazenly.
Marian nodded, careful to keep her hood hiding her face and her cape hiding her figure.
The wench filled a large tankard with foaming ale and handed it to Marian.
"You part of Robin Hood's gang? You don't 'ave to hide your face. No soldiers 'ere yet."
Marian remained silent, wishing the wench would go away so she could eavesdrop on the conversations all around her.
The wench grew bored. "You're a silent one," she complained. "Give my best to Robin, would you? He's a naughty boy, not comin' 'ere to see me. Lord! What I wouldn't give to take 'im upstairs tonight!"
"Hannah!" called Allan A Dale's familiar voice. "What's a gent gotta do to get some service?"
Marian stiffened, breathing hard with fresh anger coursing through her veins. Robin...with that hussy? 'Naughty boy,' she had called him. How dare she? How dare he?
She had never tasted ale in her life, but now, she downed the tankard and signaled for another. Raising her arm to attract the wench's attention, her hood fell back, exposing her face at the very moment Allan A Dale walked past her.
He took a step or two away, froze, then doubled back to do a double take.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
Marian readjusted her hood. "You haven't seen me," she ordered.
"Yeah, I wish I hadn't. What you got on your face? False whiskers?"
"Charcoal," she answered. "Where is that wench, anyway? Lazy slut, can't she see I want another ale?"
Allan couldn't believe her language. Not Marian, who never said an improper word! And drinking ale? He pinched himself, making sure he wasn't dreaming.
