Yet in light of John’s impending bad news, her pace quickened and her breath shortened. She tried to assure herself that John was overreacting, but her stomach seemed to know something she didn’t.

They continued in silence except for a few hurried greetings to the people they chanced upon. A wide-eyed girl named Malory and her friend Maege, followed by a milk-sopped young man named Devon and his wife. While most families tended to stay close to the safety of Locksley’s manor, farther from the castle were the more curious type. Lord Walter’s generosity had also attracted people who sought haven from troubles more immediate than short taxes. There were men here with questionable histories, or outcasts from city gangs who claimed a new calling. As they passed a few millers on the path, hurrying along to the dining hall, Marion could feel the heat from their bodies. They gave wearied hellos that spoke to the difficulty of their day’s labor. She was mortified to realize she did not know either of them by name, since they were honest workers. Honest and useful had become increasingly exclusive characteristics in her friends. If Marion had a few moments to throw away, she might have considered what that meant.

Soon enough they drew upon their destination, an uncomfortable departure from the path against a broken rockface. Their camp was below, hugging under the outcropping, safe from casual onlookers. A hundred thousand responsibilities ago, the young Robin of Locksley had shown her the way to this secluded glen, and she had fancied that it might become a secret hideaway just for the two of them. She had fortunately matured significantly since then, as had her intentions for this place.

But any hope that John’s bad news was exaggerated quickly vanished at the sight of the path down. Not only had they posted a guard, they’d used a man whose very existence screamed go away.

“It’s that bad?” she asked, trying to hide her reaction.

“Ma’am,” was all the sentry said.

The White Hand. Tall and gaunt, his skull pushed through his face, so sunken were his eyes and cheeks. He was always helpful when needed, but nobody seemed to know what the ghost-man did with the rest of his time. He kept himself stolen away under a dark hood, but there was no mistaking the bleached white glove on his right hand. Marion had no doubt that half the stories about it were utter rubbish, and that the remaining half only bore a shred of truth, but even that sliver was enough to give the man his leave.

But she knew his name. Gilbert with the White Hand was one of hers.