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Will Scarlet was somewhere in the distance, melding with the shadows. That arrogant lad always had a plan of his own, and refused to follow mine.
Friar Tuck didn’t refuse, though. He sauntered across toward the bridge, dressed in his brown habit, smiling.
Two guards stood watch at the end of the stone bridge, which passed over a shallow stream and led to a winding hill. A cottage sat on that hill, and given the congregation of black-cloaked soldiers near it, I knew we had come to the right place.
Taken us all fucking day to get here, to Robin’s childhood home of Loxley.
We had to get this right. I longed to hold my little star in my arms. To tell Robin what she truly meant to me and the others. No more half-hearted gestures. No more hesitation around my feelings for her.
Imogen was my past. A sorrowful past. She was a barricaded gateway that had taken me many years to break through.
But Robin of Loxley was my future. Now that I was on the other side of the gate, the beacon of her light shone bright. I knew she was up on that hill. I could feel her, even if I couldn’t see her.
God, I’m not a religious man, because you’ve fucked me one too many times . . . but I’ll open an ear to you again if you see it fit to make sure Robin is all right. I won’t make the same mistake twice—I won’t let her leave my sight from now on.
I couldn’t hear what Tuck was saying to the two guards. It didn’t matter. The content of their conversation was irrelevant. As the friar spoke with the two men, the soldiers’ demeanors grew more rigid and ill-tempered.
I nodded to Alan. We dashed out from our hideout, using the trees, the soldiers’ distractedness, and the shadows cast by the moon to weave our way toward the bridge’s flanks. Tuck kept them occupied. Alan and I were silent as wraiths, plus we had the sounds of the babbling stream to hide our footfalls.
Once to the craggy banks of the stream, Alan and I padded along the edge and splashed lightly into the creek, heading for the bridge on opposite sides. The water came up past our boots.
Tuck gave a final nod to the guards, fixing them with a wide smile, and began to walk away. At the same time, Alan and I pressed ourselves up to the sides of the bridge, with the friar’s diversion complete.
“Any clue what that dumb fucker was saying?” the leftmost guard asked his comrade as they turned to pace down to the other end of the bridge.
“Babbling idiot. Must have been sauced.”
They chuckled as they crossed the middle of the bridge.
Alan and I hopped up our respective sides, hands flooding over the low walls like monsters under a bed. We took the men by their shoulders and arms and heaved them over the sides of the bridge.
It wasn’t a far drop into the water, but the floor of the stream was filled with sharp pebbles and stones. Their abrupt yelps ended on splashes. I manhandled my target, putting a knee to his neck, forcing him facedown in the water. He struggled, fighting, writhing, trying to buck me off him.
Under the arch of the bridge, across the way, I spotted Alan straddling his man’s chest, growling like Will, stabbing the soldier over and over again in the neck with a dagger. The soldiers’ cries became muffled, then gargling and bloody.
I looked down. My soldier had stopped moving, drowned in the shallow river. I nodded across to Alan, and we went to work executing the next part of our plan. Within five minutes, we had the men disrobed, stuffed under the arch of the bridge where no one would find them unless they went looking.
I hoped by the time someone went looking, we would be long gone from here.
Alan buckled the black trousers of his victim and wrinkled his nose at me while he threw on the black cloak. “How unfashionable,” he sighed.
I gave him a pointed look. “Do you hear any lutes? We’re not here to impress the king’s court, mate.”
“Aye. But we fucked up one avenue—forgot to take into account their clothes being soaking wet after we were done with them.”
My frown curved on one side. Alan-a-Dale was nothing if not a man of creature comforts. Here we were, making a daring rescue attempt, and he was concerned with his appearance in the guards’ clothes and the chill brought on by their soggy garb.
We appeared on the other side of the bank, straightened our clothes, and moved along the road, gaining the base of the hill. Hedgerows waited for us.
“Hoy,” a voice came from the side, past the bushes.
I stiffened. Two guards moseyed toward us.
“What took so long on the bridge, eh?” the first guard asked. “Got any news on those shadows?”
Luckily, I knew how to look like a soldier. I grunted at the commanding officer and shrugged. “Turned out to be a drunk friar.”
“A . . . what?” He crossed his arms under his chest, confused.
