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I gawked when I reached the apex of the hill and stared down at the sight below.
Men huddled around campfires hidden by the surrounding trees and slopes. A hog was roasting over a bonfire. A winding river snaked through the area in the distance, and tents sat along its banks. Women were here, too, at least four of them being led into the camp from a different direction. A couple bandits rolled in barrels with the women, laughing and jostling each other.
Conversation was loud. The air was thick with revelry. While my uncle’s guards lay dead and dying a few miles back, this place—nestled deep in the crannies of the forest—was ready for a party.
An attractive cloaked man with soft blond hair blowing in the breeze crested the hill toward us, coming from the camp. A small lute bounced on his back, and when he peered up at us with a smile, I nearly wilted from the beauty of his serene face, framed lightly by a short-trimmed beard.
“We’ve prepared in anticipation of a successful raid, Little John,” he said in a happy voice as he met us. His hands flowed out toward the organized chaos below. “Whores, barrels of ale, a feast fit for kings.”
John crossed his arms over his chest. “This wasn’t part of the plan, Alan. We have to be moving soon.”
“Yes, yes, always moving.” The blond man flapped a hand at the taller hunter. “I knew you wouldn’t approve, so I took it upon myself—” He stopped short when his eyes met my face, mouth open in midsentence. “Oh my,” he purred, his full lips curling in a smile, “and who might this be?”
Little John gestured to me. “Alan-a-Dale, meet the Prince of Wilford and his gray-haired bodyguard.”
Alan-a-Dale swept into a low bow, extravagant and over-the-top. His dark cloak rustled as he made the gesture. “The pleasure is all mine, young master.”
My brow furrowed. Why is he so proper and respectful?
He glanced up at me with the familiar mischief in his eyes I’d come to expect from the rest of this crew. “Doesn’t seem I’ll be needing the whores tonight, after all.”
The implication unsettled me. I said lowly, “You don’t scare me, vagrant.”
He popped a high laugh. “Fantastic! That’s not my intention, young master.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Look at that,” Little John murmured, shaking his head. “You’ve gotten more words out of him than any of us in two miles.”
“I have that effect on people, dearest lumberjack.”
The rest of the raiding party scurried down the hill to join the fray, leaving four men with me and my uncle.
Little John eyed the celebration downwind, then the men standing at his side: Friar Tuck, Will Scarlet, Alan-a-Dale. He looked over at me, showing a hint of a smile.
“Let me be the first to introduce you to the Merry Men of Nottingham, little lordling.”
Chapter 17
Robin
Uncle Gregory and I were promptly tethered to the base of a large oak tree, on our asses, on opposite sides. If I craned my neck as far left as it would go, I could make out Gregory’s shadow.
It seemed we wouldn’t be enjoying the festivities.
A shame, because there was nothing like slaughter and robbery to get me excited for merrymaking.
Once Will Scarlet tied us to the tree, he said, “Don’t fuss too badly and we might not have to break you two tonight.”
“Do your worst, bastard boy,” Gregory said in a gruff voice. “I won’t bend to your sadistic whims.”
An oof of expelled air and slammed leather made me jump with a start. “Uncle Gregory!”
I shut my mouth, not realizing my blurting tongue until it was too late. I’d just given them Gregory’s relation to me.
“Don’t call me that, old louse,” Will snarled, and then kicked my uncle again, making him groan.
My admission seemed lost on Will Scarlet. I assumed he didn’t mind being called “boy,” because I’d heard others call him that. It must have been the “bastard” part he took exception to.
