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Father’s brow furrowed. “You know my wife?”
“Everyone knows Baroness Joan of Wilford, sir. Or, shall I say, every beautiful woman within a catapult’s shot of Nottingham knows her dresses.”
Father tried to hide his flash of disdain—the tightening of his face, the tic of his jaw. “Quite right.” With a curt nod, he headed for the door, glaring at me over his shoulder. “Robin, come.”
My mouth opened. My head shot from him to my poor mother. “But, Father, I can’t leave—”
“It wasn’t a question, girl. Let the good doctor do his work. You’ve done quite enough.”
He said it as if I had personally hexed Mama with the spell that diseased her.
What could I say against my frigid father? What could I say to a man people called Tom the Stiff behind his back, due to his well-known unyielding demeanor and his rigid, severe stature? Any kind of debate would end up with a hand across my face.
I’d read this book before. I’d seen how ugly it could get. So, tail between my legs, too cowardly to fight him, I hung my head and left the room and my ailing mother behind. Perhaps for the last time ever.
Outside the room, Father gripped my arm and pulled me aside. He was a tall man, and I wasn’t a tall woman. It was difficult to match his stern authority when I only came up to his chest. I still tried, balling my hands into fists, narrowing my eyes as I stared up at him. I wanted him to know I was angry, I just didn’t want to say it.
It wasn’t worth it. The last bruise on my cheek had only recently faded. I preferred to keep my pale face untarnished.
He pretended not to notice my boiling anger for forcing me out of Mama’s room to let quacks pry and probe her. “Your uncle is visiting tonight.”
“And?” I sniped back.
His upper lip twitched. I walked an ice-thin line.
Father looked me up and down, contempt wrinkling his face. “And you’d better be presentable when he arrives. I don’t want you embarrassing me with”—his palm made a circular motion at me—“whatever this is.”
Of course. It’s always about him, isn’t it?
I tugged on my waistband. “They’re called—”
“I hoped you’d outgrown this perverse fantasy of being a man by now, Robin. You’ve seen twenty summers. You’re not a man. You’ll never be one.”
The frustration inside me pulsed, throbbing behind my eyes. I blinked to keep the burn away, and said nothing. Just stood there, defiant.
“Change out of those fucking pants,” he ordered, “and put on a dress like a lady.”
With that, he turned and marched down the hall toward the stairs.
I called out, “What will you and Uncle Gregory be discussing tonight, Father?”
He froze. Looked over his shoulder. “What do you think?”
I think that’s not a goddamn answer.
His eyes flashed to the door of Mama’s bedroom. Then he was gone, disappearing down the stairs.
I let out a huff of exasperation once I knew he couldn’t hear me, and marched the other way to my small room. Inside, I waded through a chest in my closet, until I found the green hood my mother had gifted me a few years back. It was immaculately crafted, like all the garments my mother, the “Queen of the Lace Market,” worked on.
This one held more significance to me than any other garment I owned. Partly due to the deep emerald green of the forest, which she knew was my favorite color. Mostly because she made it for me herself.
While holding the hood, I looked into the blurry bronze mirror at my dressing table, and tucked my shoulder-length brown hair behind my ears. I attached the hood to my tunic and pulled it over my head, content with how I appeared.
Finally, I grabbed the shortbow hidden under my bed, and the quiver of old arrows. The same bow my brother gave me before leaving for the Crusades with King Richard. Another sentimental item, for much different reasons than the hood.
I swung the quiver and bow over my shoulder, opened the small cover on the side of the wall, and perched on the lip of the window, gazing outside.
I pulled the hood lower to shield me from the sun’s rays, then swept across the roof of the manor and shimmied down the vine trellis on the side of the house.
