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Alan and I ran after him.
Will was a phantom in the forest. He seemed to know every inch and heartbeat of this place, yet he had gotten distracted by the men at the fire and missed this last one, so badly that they almost ran into each other.
Now Will ran him down.
I let out a groan as Will sprinted to the man, leaped into the air, and buried his blade into the scout’s back.
They both fell forward—the scout with a strangled cry. Blood sprayed across a branch hanging over the trail.
Will dropped a sword, climbed atop him on his hands and knees, and straddled his hips.
Then he lifted the sword out of the shallow wound, grabbing the hilt with both hands as the scout struggled and scrabbled for purchase with his hands, trying to crawl forward.
Will growled and brought his blade high.
I clenched my eyes shut and spun away.
I heard the gruesome sounds of steel punching through bone and spine. The splatter of wet blood. The choked cry of a dying man.
Alan hugged me close, and when I looked up from under his arm I saw Will Scarlet struggling to haul his sword out of the dead man’s back. It took effort to yank it out after stabbing so deep.
A pool of blood circled the man, arms and legs flung out wildly.
“Help me with him,” Will grunted when he faced us. He wiped the blood off his sword, picked up the other one on the ground, and sheathed them.
Alan-a-Dale sighed, went to the man’s legs, and hoisted him up while Will grabbed his arms.
They carried him off the trail and threw him into a shallow ravine.
I watched with unblinking eyes as the two Merry Men committed murder and then disposed of the evidence—at least long enough to make it difficult for the other scouts in his party to find him.
Yes, I thought, swallowing over a parched throat, Will Scarlet certainly has a lot to show me before I’m convinced he’s on the right side.
Chapter 33
Robin
At camp, the Merry Men were on the move even before Will Scarlet warned them Sir Guy of Gisborne’s scouts had been spotted very close to our location.
He left out the bit about stabbing the scout in the back in cold blood.
Men packed up tents and supplies. They swept away footprints and covered our tracks with undergrowth.
Friar Tuck had returned from Nottingham. He told Little John he planned to return tomorrow, to sell the rest of the textiles he hadn’t gifted to the children in the orphanage.
Men grumbled about something. They acted sour, and I caught more than a few eyes in my direction.
I went to Little John to figure it out. “What is going on?” I asked in a hushed voice, standing next to the carriage while he inspected the clearing of the camp.
“A few Merry Men voiced their disgruntled opinions on what their leadership has been doing,” he said. His gaze darted over to a fire being stamped out.
“You mean . . . you?”
“Aye. And Will, Tuck, and Alan. They’re concerned we’re exposing ourselves by going into Nottingham and other villages to do our work. Even though it’s always been our way, to see to our families.”
“Then there’s something else bothering them.”
“Yes, there is,” said a gruff voice behind me.
