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Alan said, “That’s not fair, lad.”
“Why is he not the same?” I asked. “Because he’s more caring than you? Do you think that makes him weak?”
I wanted to get to the bottom of Will’s disagreements with the de facto leader of the Merry Men. I wasn’t sure why, but it hurt to see them close to punches every time they spoke to one another.
Will stopped walking, which stopped me and Alan alongside him. “Little John is the strongest man I know,” he announced. “I’m not talking about his size or physical strength. In recent years, however, he’s seemed despondent.” He continued walking through the woods, and I shuffled to keep up. “. . . Until you showed up.”
A thrill of desire swelled in my belly. I didn’t know what to say, so we continued, past the birch trees, over a small creek, and alongside a swooping cliffside.
I thought about the mysterious man known as Sir Guy of Gisborne. The Sheriff of Nottingham’s lackey, as John had put it. I wondered why I was so curious about him, or Will and John’s relationship—any of it, honestly.
“These are not your affairs to meddle in,” Robert said, and I had to agree.
Why would I conflate my own problems with the Merry Men’s? Our issues were entirely separate. If anything, this Guy of Gisborne could help me. So why did I see him as an enemy?
He was the enemy of my captors, which meant I should consider him a friend. And yet, I didn’t. His ominous purpose in these woods frightened me.
A thought crossed my mind, dark and foreboding.
Could the Merry Men be purposefully distracting me with everything? The river, the sewing, the hunting, the sex? The camaraderie and sad stories of where these men came from?
I hadn’t thought to question them on Uncle Gregory’s disappearance in awhile. Shamefully, I hadn’t even thought about him.
That worried me. It added to the confusion and made my entire existence here more convoluted.
Another reason I can’t stay, even if I wanted, I thought. I’m too curious and hesitant to trust these men. At the end of the day, they are my captors. If up to them, I’d be getting shipped back to Nottingham with Tuck’s textiles, if it meant he returned with a fat purse jangling from his hip.
But John had said something different. He told me he wouldn’t have sold me back to Father even if the price was right, after speaking with him.
God, it’s all so baffling!
“Get a hold of yourself, sister. Keep your wits about you with the Merry Men, lest you fall into an even deeper pit of sin.”
“Here we are,” Will said.
I looked up from the ground, brought back from my wandering thoughts. We were cresting a small hill, and on the other side of it was a sloping landscape surrounded by trees, humans, and life. Small hovels and some sturdy cabins sat in the wide expanse beyond.
Ravenshead. A village hidden in Sherwood Forest. One of many. This huge forested territory was littered by small hamlets like this one.
Before we walked in, Will took my arm. “Remember what I said, little thorn.”
I nodded. “Watch and keep my eyes open.”
“Good girl.”
With that sendoff, he strode down the hill.
People watched us arrive through the thickets. They were like any other people I’d seen in Nottingham—poor, dressed in tattered clothes, grimy from years of hard labor. In this case, living in the wilderness.
A large wooden priory sat in the middle of the village. Small houses and hovels surrounded it, with makeshift walkways and trails between them. Some merchants had brought in carts to sell their wares. Men bartered near the carts, the voices loud and boisterous.
The soil here was sandy and grainy. I saw no sign of any crops growing—not that Ravenshead was large enough to set up fields to begin with. It seemed this place operated on trade, importing, and some exporting.
I saw what their export was soon enough—smelled it in the air and heard it buzzing under every shady tree we passed under.
Beehives. Dozens of them. Wherever I squinted hard enough, I could see them and their droves of yellow bees swarming nearby.
It made for a precarious trek through the village.
