Free Maid of Sherwood by Shanti Krishnamurty

father ourselves. Please excuse us, Sheriff. It is a bit close in here. I need some fresh air.”
    The sheriff’s mouth opened, and then closed. He bowed jerkily. “Please accept my apologies. I did not mean to insult you or your family name.”
    “Ah, there you are, Sheriff.” Father strolled up. “Your page found me.” He put an arm around Mother. “Is everything all right, Beatrix?”
    Mother nodded. “What kept you?”
    “One of the horses turned up lame. But it has been taken care of.”
    Marian paled. “It—it was not killed, was it?”
    “Of course not,” Father reassured her. “I doubt even Prince John could afford to waste such a valuable commodity.”
    “The prince does not believe in wasting anything valuable,” the sheriff agreed. “And neither do I,” he continued with a sideways glance at Marian.
    She hid a shudder at the look in his eyes. His gaze held all the warmth of a cold, foggy day.
    “Sheriff,” Mother cut into the conversation. “Do get someone to show us to our rooms. I am tired and want to rest before supper.”
    “I can do that,” the sheriff protested. “There's no need to bother the servants.”
    “They are servants,” Mother said with a sniff. “I do not see how it would be a bother for them to do their job.”
    The sheriff bowed. “But you are Prince John’s special guests. He would be most displeased if I did not make sure the accommodations were to your satisfaction.” He led the way through the Great Hall, dodging servants with ease.
    Marian followed dutifully after them, grateful the sheriff was not insisting she walk at his side. Her skin crawled whenever he looked at her; as though she were nothing more than a prettily packaged life sized doll.
    The comparatively silent stone hallway bustled with household servants, each quietly going about their respective business. At one point, Marian was forced back against the stone wall as servants clad in matching tunics and leggings of purple and silver marched past her, steam rising from the platters they held high above their heads.
    “It smells delicious.” Marian’s mouth began to water. She raised herself onto her toes, peeking at the platters as they went by. Peacocks in wine, tail feathers fanned out across the wooden platter in resplendent glory; a whole roasted boar, apple tucked neatly into its mouth; platters upon platters of cheese, eggs, and more pastries than Marian had ever seen.
    “I do not see any larks’ tongues,” the sheriff said, his voice thick with disapproval. “They should always be served when the prince is in attendance.”
    “Does Prince John like them?” Marian asked.
    “Of course,” the sheriff said, “or they would not be placed at his table. I do hope you will do me the courtesy of trying one over supper. They truly are a rare delicacy, and melt in the mouth.”
    Marian could not imagine anything more foul. “I am sure the larks see things rather differently,” she said.
    “Marian du Luc, apologize at once!” Mother scolded.
    Father attempted to look stern, but it was ruined by the tears of laughter which welled up in his eyes.
    Marian glanced at the ground. “I do apologize,” she murmured. “I should not have said it.”
    “You might wish to guard that tongue closer,” the sheriff returned. “The prince does not see the humor in a sharp witted woman.”
    “Sheriff, I think it wise if you guard your own tongue around my daughter,” Father bit out. “Your veiled threats are insulting and will not be tolerated.”
    The other man bowed immediately, but not before Marian saw the anger in his eyes. “I did not mean any offense. Please accept my humble apologies.”
    Mother nodded once. “Will we have time to make ourselves respectable before supper? I would hate to see the prince while still dressed in the filth from the road.”
    “The prince would never wish you to look anything but your best.” The sheriff’s smile was oily and reminded Marian strongly of a