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I weaved through the copse of birch trees ahead. This stage was where my sprightly stature gave me an advantage. The roving marks section, where I navigated a course with a timer-man behind me. I had to find the targets in the vicinity when he yelled that my time had begun, and then we moved onto the next area.
The targets came high, low, wide, narrow. One was positioned on a rock, nearly hidden by a tree branch. Another, next to a pond, sat on a bed of lily pads, slowly floating across the surface of the water.
I shot them all swiftly, feeling confident in my abilities.
Other archers were in other sections of the woods—all of us leading to the same location at the end. We were each given a stretch of time to work through the course on our own.
I channeled my brother. I channeled what I knew of Guy of Gisborne, and the soldiers who had grown up alongside my family in Robert’s troop, and—
I gasped.
Oliver of Mickley.
It was the name of one of Robert’s childhood friends. A young man who had gone off to war with him.
How could I have forgotten that? He was a handsome boy I was smitten with when I was a little girl.
When he and Robert left for war together, I was just as sad at losing Oliver’s smile as I was at losing my brother for a time. Or losing him forever, as it turned out.
“Time!”
Ripped back to reality, I fumbled my bow, blinked away my thoughts, and scanned the scene ahead. Undergrowth crept out from an oak tree, and in the hollow of the tree itself, higher than two men stacked together—
I pulled back on the arrow and shot.
And missed.
“Fuck!” I growled, and took aim again.
Now I was rattled, thinking about my brother’s friend.
I took a deep, deep breath and held it, slowing my heartbeat. Then I went to a knee for better leverage and balance, aiming high.
My second shot struck true. I pushed off my knees.
There were two options, the way I saw it, and both of them were bad. If my rival in this competition was truly Oliver of Mickley, then he would know something about my brother’s death. The circumstances surrounding it, at least.
How could Oliver never come to Wilford to tell my family the story of Robert’s demise? How callous and disillusioned has the young man become after leaving the military?
In my mind, it seemed impossible. That wasn’t the handsome, smiling lad I remembered. Then again, that was years and years ago. People changed.
The other option, of course, was the one I was steering toward. My original hunch—that this was Sir Guy of Gisborne, in disguise. Playing everyone for fools. The stature of this man was more aligned with Guy’s tall, lanky frame than what I remembered of Oliver.
I couldn’t fault Guy for his impersonation or disguise since I was also in disguise and impersonating a man.
If it’s Guy . . . then what does that say about the frightening man, for him to know so much about my childhood and youth?
Because surely choosing that name couldn’t have come by accident or coincidence.
It made me shudder to wonder if Guy had been watching me much, much longer than I knew.
What is Guy of Gisborne trying to show me?
Chapter 54
Little John
Keeping an eye on Robin during the roving marks leg of the tournament frustrated the hell out of me. It was difficult because she constantly swerved through the trees, crisscrossing in random directions. She moved fast, too. Too damned fast for my old knees to keep up with.
